


Made Monstrous

by immortalitylost



Series: Made Monstrous [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: And building a better stronger faster season 3, Angst, Basically me filling in the cracks the writers left behind, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Billy and Steve's Adorable Symbiotic Relationship, Body Horror, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hot Cocoa, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, New Monster Type, Personal Growth, Post-Season/Series 02, Racist Language, Slow Burn, there that's better, wow these tags are dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-05-28 10:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 107,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalitylost/pseuds/immortalitylost
Summary: The bouncer manhandles Billy out the bar doors and into the slap of cold nighttime. It was a good fight. Always good when he can fight back.He’s still high on it when he walks into the convenience store for a pack of smokes, licking the slow ooze of blood off his split lower lip. That’s probably why he doesn’t notice Harrington one aisle over; why he near runs into him as he rounds a corner.And honestly, he didn’t expect to be the one to jump when they met up again.For a moment, Harrington’s eye that’s not a swollen mess is big and round and white around the brown iris and his pink lips part like he’s about to say something, start something. But he doesn’t. So Billy has to.That's how it works.Or: Forget summer, Season 3startswhen the fight at Byers houseends, fresh bruises and all, no break, and with new monsters, like 110% more Billy falling for Steve and 1645% less throwing away his character arc.





	1. Blissed Out On the Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Can't get Billy out of my head, so I'll inflict him on others. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

The moon lights Billy’s way down the Byers long-ass driveway. But it hides the stars, too. Denies him one of the only worthwhile things he’d found in this shithole of a town. And it figures. It just fucking figures.

He spits again, kicks the moistened dirt as he walks past. There’s a chemical taste lingering on his tongue that saliva won’t wash away. Cigarettes won’t cover it either. He’d tried to find a beer to kill the taste but the only beverages on offer in that crazy-ass house were warm and scattered across the lunatic’s-art-project of a kitchen floor. If there had been beer, he might’ve just shrugged it off, taken it anyway. He could use one. Especially now. Fuck, what he really could use now is a few quick shots of something that’ll light his belly on fire.

It’s fucking cold.

But cold or not, when he makes his way home he bypasses the front door, noting his Camaro pulled up in its usual spot and too pissed to think any further. He doesn’t go inside, heads instead to the cutesy little bench hidden away out back. The one Neil had bought back in Cali for Susan's garden the second she’d asked for it. She got presents like that. Easy. Max too. And for a little while there, because of them his life had also been looking up. At least in the beginning, when Neil was busy baiting his hook for Susan.

It was unsettling really, the way his dad had suddenly stopped laying into him if they were around to see. Laid off on the bruises that tended to happen when they had really good conversations. Gave Billy a break trying to cover.

Hope had crept in then, but he’d tried to kill it as it grew, because he knew that hope was a fucking lie. A pipe dream. Might as well wish on a goddamn star. But it was tempting. Neil had even started handing him an allowance, right alongside Max, like he’d been doing it all along. Like he was dad of the fucking year or something.

That shit hadn’t lasted. None of that good will had survived the end in California, their move here. Here, things are finally getting back to good ol’ predictable fucked up normal.

He smokes down half his pack shivering his ass off on that stupid fucking bench, just waiting for morning, fighting off sleep. His dad starts clanking around the house around 5 and he watches the routine through windows pouring off golden-warm promises. His smoked-down cigarette falls from fingers numb with cold and he grinds the embers into the dew-frosted dirt.

By 6 his dad is gone and Billy can finally enter his own fucking house without repercussions. He can’t sleep though; doesn’t need the extra bullshit that missing school will get him.

He can take a shower in peace and toothpaste does what smoke and spit couldn’t for that horrible chemical film. A couple aspirins do a bit of damage to the hangover headache that had begun creeping up on him about 4. Then Susan’s bland eggs and a couple slabs of dry toast have him feeling somewhere close to human.

Susan doesn’t speak to him, but her furtive glances tell him enough. She wasn’t prepared for last night, is just now beginning to see the trap built up around her. She’d scrambled his eggs the way he liked. Went out of the way. Like she hadn’t dared do when Neil had him pinned and tearing up and kicking himself for thinking things were safe here after all the effort he’d put in to be better. She’d watched him kick feebly back at Neil’s bullshit, then inevitably yes Sir his way out of the fight, feeling like all that bullshit might be right after all, eyes down and so fucking used to it he didn’t even have it in him to really fight much anymore. Like, yeah he’s a piece of shit, what’s new? And it hadn’t even been too bad as far as chats between him and his dad went. But this time she’d been watching. And she hadn’t known who Neil was until then.

Guess the cat’s out of the fuckin bag now.

Fuck her, though. Fuck her and her pity and her fear. Welcome to the family.

Max watches him like she’s waiting for something. Well fuck her too. She can take her jacked up baseball bat and her tranq needle and that fucking thing he’d seen in the refrigerator and shove it all where the sun don’t shine. Right now, he doesn’t want to deal with any crazy shit. Definitely doesn’t want to fuck around with their _feelings_. Right now, he’s focused on his toast.

Once he drops Max off and makes it to school he’s at his locker for less than two seconds before Carol is slinking up next to him all guess-what-I-just-heard. King Steve and his prettied up face showed up at school today and it’s all anyone can talk about. But Billy doesn’t see him all day. Not that he’s looking for the fucker. The coward skips out on practice, too. Hopefully Stevie-boy iced those fucking bruises is all he’s sayin. Billy can’t remember how he’d left him, but he can take a fucking guess and say Harrington’ll be hurtin today.

Come this evening, Billy’s gonna be right there with him.

Max keeps darting these little nervous glances at him on the way home and for the most part he just tunes them out. But when she asks if it’ll be bad with Neil, he takes the time to throw her a look.

“Whadda _you_ think?”

She nods and he sees the apology in her eyes, so to preempt that shit he flicks the volume up to almost painful. She doesn’t get to apologize. If she’s lucky, she won’t have to watch.

And then Neil’s waiting when they get there, Susan pacing nervously in the next room. And—lucky little Max—as soon as the two of them troop through the door Susan scoops her quickly from his side.

Susan can’t even look at Billy. Max does, desperate eyes full of I'm sorrys. Full of guilt. But that guilt means absolutely fucking nothing now, the second time around. And he doesn't give her shit.

Fuck forgiveness.

Neil stands, chin up, and adjusts his belt, his no-nonsense hands resting on his hips, just looking at Billy. No anger. No emotion. He moves slow. Unhurried. Don’t flinch. Don’t you flinch this time, don’t give him that, the fucker. Don’t flinch.

“Can we hurry this up?” he says, just wanting it to start so it can finish. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Afterwards, Billy assesses the damage in his bedroom mirror. It ain’t good. He paces, lifts some weights, resists the urge to break the closest object he can find because all the nearby shit is his. For now. But no whores, Neil commands. No parties. Look after your sister, Boy—not his sister that little bitch. Respect and responsibility, like always. Respect. And. Responsibility.

But Neil won’t stop him going out tonight. An unspoken agreement. He has tonight.

He peals out of the driveway just because he can and drives until he can be cool for a hot second; parks in front of a dive bar he hasn’t been in yet. Thirsty old lady bartender greets him, so he gets away with a couple of shots with a little flirting and no hassle about his age. Then he plays a little pool just so he can run his mouth. Keeps it up till some drunk fuck says he talks a big game for a pretty little faggot and all that pent up rage just comes flowing out of him from the fists.

Drunk fuck and two of his friends later and he has his few fresh bruises to cover up the ones he came in with, has his alibi and feels about blissed out as he lets some big motherfucker manhandle him out the doors and into the slap of cold nighttime. It was a good fight. Always good when he can fight back.

He’s still high on it when he walks into the convenience store for a pack of smokes, licking the slow ooze of blood off his split lower lip. That’s probably why he doesn’t notice Harrington one aisle over; why he near runs into him as he rounds a corner.

And honestly, he didn’t expect to be the one to jump when they met up again.

For a moment, Harrington’s eye that’s not a swollen mess is big and round and white around the brown iris and his lips part like he’s about to say something, start something. But he doesn’t. So Billy has to.

“Lookin’ better than I woulda thought, Stevie-boy. You break out your mom’s concealer?”

Harrington doesn’t take the bait. Just stares, big doe eye, parted pink lips. Billy’s marks all over him. Shit.

Shit.

“The hell happened to you?” Harrington’s voice is low, tired, and he’s looking at Billy with that one dark eye, really looking, and Billy doesn’t fucking like it. Feeling exposed like that. Examined and not just taken at face value. Pretty boy. Violent boy. Yada yada wanna fuck? Wanna fight?

“The fuck’s it look like?”

Harrington’s one eye keeps on him. Billy plucks the Twinkie out of Stevie-boy’s loose grip and looks at the greasy yellow cake stuck to the plastic side like a doughy starfish on glass. It’s disgusting, interesting. What the fuck is Harrington looking at, anyway?

“Fuck off,” Steve says, snatching the Twinkie back. “It looks like an improvement is what it looks like.”

Harrington’s not scared. He’s not mad. The guy just looks tired. And Billy only got a glimpse of whatever weird shit was going on last night, one peek in that fridge, at that thing, but he’d be willing to bet all that shit has something to do with the thousand-yard look in Harrington’s eye now.

Who is this kid?

No, scratch that. Billy wants nothing to do with it. He just wants a reaction. So he crowds up on Harrington, real close, fucking hating how needy he is. Gets right in Stevie-boy’s face and smells fancy shampoo when he sucks in a breath to talk.

“Yeah, you look real pretty in purple too,” he says. Then he pats Harrington on the bruised cheek just to be an even bigger asshole, maybe get a rise. Nothing. Billy feels like decking him in the middle of the store, laying him out under the bright buzzing lights and fuck his already-split knuckles and fuck the cashier’s already-suspicious looks and hand on the phone. Fuck it all. “See ya round, Princess,” he says instead.

He struts up to the counter and gets that pack he came in for. Grabs a Twinkie too, while he’s at it, feeling Harrington behind him in line like the motherfucker is two inches away instead of two feet. He struts out to his car, not looking back, not letting himself. Gulping down the cold air on the short walk. Needs to get that scent out of his nose. Out of his head.

But he can’t. He knows it’s happening again. Has been since that Halloween party and that look in those big fucking stupid doe eyes. Cali all over again and where the fuck will they end up next? Why the fuck can’t he just stop?

Shit. Oh shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter:
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot


	2. Scare You the Most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited for all the love I got for my last chapter, you guys. I was gonna say "you don't even know" but a lot of you probably do, hehe. Thank you so! Anyway, Billy still won't let go so here's some more. Enjoy!

Parties are shit here.

In Cali, there’d been a party every day if you knew the right people—and Billy’d made it a point to know those people. Here, there are the same old keg stands and chug chug chug, loud music and bodies pressed as close as conversations mingling in shared threesomes and foursomes till all the words are a meaningless ecstasy. Sure. But not every day. Not whenever he feels like it. The parties here are a constant cock-tease, all hurry up and wait for it; except they’re all so much the same bullshit that afterwards memories of them run together in some long beige blur, one interchangeable with the next. He drinks three times as much nowadays just to get the same buzz from it all.

He still goes. Obviously. What the fuck else is there to do? And he really needs to just go ahead and wipe Cali right out of his head. Stop thinking of it like it’s still an option, a possibility. Like it still exists for him.

There’s nothing for him there now. He’d seen to that himself.

Neil’s no whores no parties commandment lasted all of two days. Long enough for his old man to get sick of seeing him around the house, pacing the rooms like some caged animal. Long enough to pop the dings out of his car too, the ones Max had put there when she fucking stole it after drugging him. You know. _That_ fucking night.

“Good to see you taking some initiative; cleaning up your own mess.”

Neil’d surprised him out in the driveway, towering over Billy’s prone form sipping beer as Billy’d laid alongside the car all greased up and unprepared for this shit. His big bad dad, casting his long-ass shadow, arms crossed and feet planted. What the fuck ever. Then Neil’d asked if Billy’d found a nice girl to ride in that car he’d spent so much money on yet. Like that was why he’d bought it; like Billy owed him. And it was. And Billy did. The car was a tool and Billy wasn’t using it properly, his dad implied. And borrowed tools can be taken back if they aren’t being used. Yeah, there’d been that unspoken threat. And there'd been that other ever-present threat there, too, behind the question. You get yourself normal yet, kid? Get yourself right? Do you need more motivation? And Billy heard that loud and clear too, had understood perfectly. He's a good listener for those pesky implications that lay in the space between words.

And he’s fuckin been trying. Lay off.

So tonight he’s out. Hopped in his car and cruised on out to a party, where the girls live. He’s drunk too much flat beer now, is pissing every five minutes, but a while back a girl named Chrissy had let him cop a lot more than a feel when they were making out in some fat comfy chair in some shady out-of-the-way corner, so mission accomplished as far as he was concerned.

Check.

But Chrissy had been a while back and he’s still here. And he doesn’t fucking know why. All that he has here is the cold at his back and the fire warming his front, plus a bottle in the hand that he can still smell her on every time he takes a drink.

And he has Tommy’s drunk ass telling some bullshit story next to him, jumping around in the fire-glow as his arms work and his voice stresses each exploit. Everyone else seems pretty fucking enthralled by the tale, too, though if he’d heard it before, the new guy, these assholes must know it by heart. Must be humoring the guy. Or maybe they’re just easily amused idiots. Whatever the case Billy’s bored of it. He stares into the banked coals and takes another drink, feeling numb, like he isn’t even real. Needs a good fight to wake him up.

Where the fuck is Harrington, anyway?

The question has been there all night, but so far in the background that mostly he doesn’t even notice till it finds an opening in his thoughts, pops up again for air. Where is Steve, former king, while this party is happening? He should be here. Should be coming for Billy, pissed about his stolen friends and title and fucking life. But he isn’t. Seems like he couldn’t care less, in fact. Billy sighs, needs to piss again. 

Fuck Tommy’s story. The woods are calling.

He isn’t thinking much of anything, wandering deeper into the woods, farther into the dark. Tommy’s voice grows blessedly fainter. He can really be alone here; that’s the worst thing about this new place. He knows he could just fuck off on his own if he wanted, off into the woods surrounding this place and no one would ever be able to find him again. And that thought _pulls_ , like the little thrill you get standing at the edge of some height, knowing death is right there in plain sight, so close, so innocuous. Like the quick impulse on the freeway when a semi looms to your right as you zoom on by and all it would take is a couple degrees difference and you’d just be meat on the pavement. CRASH. You won’t do it. Of course not. But you _could_. It’s right there.

Death is right here in the woods with him, siren song and all, a hum in his teeth.

He leans hard into a tree—drunker than he’d wagered now that he’s up and moving—and figures he’s gone far enough for a quick leak. 

The only sound is the wet splatter of his piss against the tree trunk. He can’t stand the fucking quiet of it all. Too quiet. Shouldn’t there be crickets; bats and shit? There isn’t even a breeze to rustle the leaves. Only the quieting patter of his piss hitting the tree and the rising tide of thoughts in his head, nothing there now to drown them out. No distraction.

So when he hears the sound it comes in loud and clear, a CRACK overhead. Doesn’t even have time to look before something’s falling on his arm with a thick wet PLOP and after that the pain distracts him from everything. Feels as if his arm is dipped in acid and he thinks he’ll gladly cut it off to stop the pain. If it will only— He backs up till he falls, waving his arm wildly, scraping it along the ground trying to get the thing to—get it off, get off, get get get—let the fuck go of his arm. The pain gets worse, somehow, and all he can do now is roll where it takes him, scratching at the thing on his arm again and again and it won’t let loose. It just won’t— It won’t…. 

Everything starts to go soupy, warm, and then black creeps in around the edges, safe and gauzy. The next thing he knows he’s opening his eyes and it’s bright as fuck and Steve Harrington is leaning down over him, haloed by the cold grey sky.

Harrington offers his hand and Billy’s awake enough now to scoff at that gesture, knock that hand away, get his own ass to his feet. But barely. He pulls up a sleeve—and it’s harder than it should be but he does it—and checks his arm but there’s not even much of a mark, really. And the pain is gone. Not that he’d notice for the cold. God, he’s aching with it. Except where he isn’t. Where he can’t feel anything. And really that’s the most worrying.

“Harrington.” He slowly, awkwardly, smooths down his sleeve, then puts on the cockiest grin he can find. “The fuck you doin way the hell out here at—what time is this anyway? Jesus it’s bright.”

“It’s around 9,” Harrington says, fingers—consciously or not—playing across the still-dark bruises on his cheek before shoving his hair back, making Billy swallow thickly, glance away despite how shitty he’s feeling, how fucking cold and tired he is. He can’t seem to stop shivering either. Fuck. 

“Have you been out here all night?” Harrington drops his hand, squinting at Billy, little lines between his brows. “It’s barely 40 degrees.”

Is that fucking worry on Stevie’s face? Billy smiles like a predator but he only does it to mask the frown. Doesn’t need that shit at all. No. What he needs is to go home and crawl under the covers for a few days. But that presents its own problems, doesn’t it?

“Lookin out for me, huh? That’s cute.”

He’s shivering too hard to really sell any threats, voice too weak and jittery, so he doesn’t even try, makes due with spitting in Stevie-boy’s general direction and laboriously lighting up a smoke, stopping to blow some in the guy’s battered face as he passes, hoping like Christ he’s headed the right way. He’s all turned around here. Fucking trees are the only landmarks and they’re no help; all look the same to him.

Harrington follows. Catches up. Guess Billy’s headed the right way, then. Thank Christ.

He stops worrying over Harrington and tries to come up with some kind of plan. Neil is off today, so home is going to be a problem after being out all night—his dad doesn’t believe in sleep after 8 in the morning. If he goes home, he’ll have to sell his dad some yarn about being too busy with some nice-but-not-too-nice-if-you-know-what-I-mean girl to make it back before the doors were locked at curfew. The old man would like that. Then he’d have to suffer through chores, probably some tense conversation afterwards over a football game, his father slowly growing drunker at the opposite end of the couch, less predictable by the moment. Fucking horror show. No. Well, what does that leave him with? Tommy’s? Is that the best he’s got?

Some kind of dread looms there at the ass-end of that thought, just shy of touching him. It’s indistinct and cloudy but it scares the hell out of him. He’s got fuck-all here, he’s realizing. Nothing. Less than usual. He’ll manage, always does, but if he stops and stares at that cloudy mass of wrong he’s feeling out the edges of now, if he lets it catch up to him, he knows the day is fucked before it even begins. That’s it, show’s over. 

He’s just gotta stop thinking, that’s what needs to happen. Been at it too long out here in all this green shit, the only sounds ambient and fucking useless. He flicks his spent cigarette away, licks his lips and resists the urge to hug himself against the whole-body cold that comes back to his attention all how-the-fuck-you-been the second he stops thinking so goddamn hard. Finally, in desperation, he distracts himself with Harrington who’s just so _there_. So _there_ beside him, inches away, like the drop-off of a cliff or something, so seemingly innocuous. So deadly. A quick drop from frying pan to fire. He knows better. But it’s all he has.

Harrington is looking at Billy. The light hits Stevie-boy’s delicate face and plays up the yellow eating away at the edges of each healing bruise. Soon he’ll be all smooth white skin like Billy’d never even been there. Both dark eyes are visible now, swelling gone down around them. And they’re both looking his way in that way they have of seeing him for real.

“What the fuck do you want, Harrington?”

It comes out more defeated than he means it to, less angry. He’s too cold for angry. Movement has given him some feeling back in his extremities, so at least there’s that, but that isn’t all that much, really. He won’t lose a finger is the best it's gonna get. Great. They’ve reached the edge of the forest, and he’s racking his brain trying to remember whose house he’s seeing in the distance. Had he ever heard who was throwing the party? Must have, right?

“What?” Harrington says, distracted. “I don’t want anything from you, Jesus, think you’re so important.” Then he goes quiet for a bit. Not long enough. “While we’re on the subject though,” he says, turning on Billy. “What the hell do you want from _me_? Every time you see me it’s something, but you know what? I don’t remember pissing in your cheerios.” 

And a laugh flies out of Billy at that. Busts on out without permission. It’s all alone and it dies quickly but it’d been there. Genuine article.

“Shit,” he manages. “Nothin personal Stevie.” A lie. It’s personal, alright. But he goes on lying. “Just your standard coup d’etat.” 

Then Billy wipes the remains of any humor off his face and says something stupid. Because apparently he can’t fucking help himself. “In fact,” he says, “I really just wanna be your pal. Who wouldn’t, y’know? Big King Steve with your perfect hair, with your money and your pretensions… and your monster in the closet.” A longer pause for tension’s sake. “Well, I say closet…”

And he’s walking again without even staying to watch the bomb drop, just waiting for Harrington’s ass to catch on, to catch up. Grinning when he hears the guy puffing up alongside.

“What are you talking about?” Stevie says, like Billy knew he would, gripping Billy’s arm to slow him up. And Billy does slow, stops even. He looks down at the hand on his bicep, smile just growing like a goddamn weed. He’s warmer already. Let Harrington keep pushing and he’ll be heart-thumping toasty warm soon enough, Stevie-boy’s blood spilt hot across his knuckles and the guy’s pretty face in no danger of healing for at least another week. Marked up real nice.

And Billy thought today wasn’t gonna amount to much. Guess it just goes to show.

“Which part didn’t you catch? Should I use smaller words?” His car is so close now. He sees it, lonely on the sad expanse of tire-ruptured lawn before him. Where are Harrington’s wheels?

But his view is blocked by perfect hair and big fearful eyes ringed the dark of twin fading shiners, and he’s stopped again, in his tracks, by King fucking Steve.

“What did you see?”

Billy throws on half a grin, studying Harrington closely. Then he slides on up, close enough to touch once more even if he does get another hit of Harrington’s rich-boy scent for his troubles and he’ll have to deal with it later. He leans in and whispers, real low, in Harrington’s ear.

“What would scare you the most?”

Billy knocks past, shoulder on shoulder violence, and he’s striding off to his car that’s so close now he can make out every detail. Which means the knife handle sticking out of his tire stands out real well. And Jesus fuck.

Just his luck. 

The cold seeps back in suddenly, has Billy shivering as he slows up, all his cocky momentum lost. He reaches his car and pulls the knife out of his useless tire very slowly, not really trusting himself with the blade in his hand. He closes the knife up like he’s disarming a bomb, then fucking chucks it as hard as he can, so hard his shoulder screams afterwards. Good. A nice distraction.

He thinks back on the night before—and doesn’t it seem forever ago? Plays back his spotty, shit-faced memory of the party. There’d been the living room and its keg stand. There’d been the kitchen and its whiskey to cover the shrinking feeling he got listening to story after story full of people and places he couldn’t even picture, jokes that he’d just “have to have been there” to get. There’d been the girl, the big comfy chair in the corner and his fingers working her up to a frenzy like he was being paid on commission to get her off. Trying to kick images of Neil’s disgusted face from his conscious thought and get his tongue running her teeth, his hand hot down her panties, searching. But after? Where had she gone after?

He remembers her tight little breaths escalating in his ear, remembers his wrist cramping and the blessed relief when she’d finally closed up, curling and spasming as she’d finished, high muted whine puffing hot on his cheek.

But after?

She’d tried to touch his dick and he’d quick stopped her, got up, told her it was cool. He wasn’t feelin it, drank too much probably, and he told her they’d come back to it later before sending her off with a quick spank on her ass for some more drinks. That’s when he’d escaped outside, scooping up a half-empty bottle of something horrible and just right, on the way.

And from there, yes, he’d seen her fighting with some asshole through the huge fucking windows that shown out party-flash colors on the dark back yard. Her boyfriend? He saw the guy storming off.

Storming off to fuck up his ride. Hindsight is a bitch.

And it’s not just one tire that the asshole had shredded to appease his wounded pride. It’s all of em. And Billy’s windshield is webbed with cracks too, where the bastard must have hit it with some blunt object. He swallows, mouth dry. Can’t seem to think far enough ahead to see a logical next step here. The shivering is back, he notices absently; the numbness too, tagging along.

“Shiiiiit,” Harrington says, drawing the word out. The sudden sound makes Billy flinch. Only a little, though. Only cause he’d forgot for a moment that the guy was there. “Guess you just can’t please em all, huh?”

And Billy laughs again at that, one quick sharp huff, his hopelessness evaporating in the heat of this new anger. He’s licking his lip, tongue thoughtful against the upper, paused there to launch at the feeling those words start up in his chest and turning to face King Steve, the shakes stilled, the cold a distant memory. 

“I do love those giant fucking balls of yours, Amigo,” he says, goading and ready to spring. “Just massive.” And he walks up, squares up, hairs standing taught and senses singing. Come on Stevie-boy. Come the fuck on.

But Harrington does it again, just like that night, a step in their last dance. He stops Billy with a touch, those two immovable fingers hitting Billy’s chest, absorbing all of Billy’s unstoppable force. The point of contact feels heavy, is itching with tension. Harrington is quiet, just watching that connection, his fingers riding the breakers of Billy’s breath. And Billy’s eyes are on him, too. Are there to catch Harrington’s gaze when he finally throws it back to Billy’s face. Harrington swallows and Billy’s eyes snap down to the movement, get caught on pink lips as they make their way back up. Those lips part as Harrington exhales. Open further as he sucks breath back in, preparing to speak. The words seem distant when they come.

“Truce, okay?” those lips say. “Come use my phone. You can warm up while you wait for a tow.”

And Harrington’s a real comedian; has Billy laughing again, but this time it’s more of a derisive snort. 

“That simple huh?” he says, mocking. “Fuckin rich kids—I can’t afford a tow, dumbass.”

“Well,” Harrington says, “fuck it. Come anyway. You look like shit, man. Think you might have hypothermia or somethin. Just come with me and you can figure out what you’re doing after that.”

And he’s probably right about the hypothermia. Shit. The shivers are back worse than ever.

“Why you doing this? The whole helpful routine?” Billy asks. Kindness? My ass. Harrington’s acting suspicious as all hell. His actions just don’t track with anything Billy’s learned about the world. He’s an aberration. A freak. And his big dark eyes are watching again, all soft and patient. But there’s a spark there. A spark of something cruel that draws Billy in like catnip. King Steve smiles and that cruel fire is there in that too.

“I dunno,” Harrington says through that smile. “What would scare you the most?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)


	3. Fucking Marshmallows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy is so much the little engine that could, but like, with anger. Come at me with your thoughts and feelings! This story is kind of a groping around in the dark type of deal and your feedback is my flashlight. Ooo, see that? Free metaphor. Now don't say I never did nothin for ya.

Empty halls, empty walls. Feels like a goddamn museum in here. An empty life.

Billy’s rummaging through a shelf of old records. That lets him stick close to the honest-to-god fucking fireplace in whatever the hell room Harrington had said he was in without actually sitting in front of it—admitting he needs it. As far as he’s concerned when you start to run out of names for the rooms in your own house, you should just face the fact that you’ve got some kind of problem. It’s the first step to quitting, he’s heard.

Harrington comes back from wherever the fuck he’d wandered off to. Billy ashes on the fancy carpet and cocks his head at the entrance.

“Big on classical music, huh?” He waves Mozart in the air, then gestures to the two mugs in Harrington’s hands. “No no no, never mind the music, what the hell is that? What’d you do, make me cocoa?”

“Yeah.” All matter-of-fact. Harrington just stands there with the fucking cocoa he’d gone and made for Billy, as if that’s fine. As if he can just do that. Like, “no, it’s cool man, cocoa is the new thing. Why? Cause I say so.” Like he couldn’t give less of a flying fuck what he’s supposed to do. Billy takes another hit off his cigarette to hide the shake in his hands. Fucking cold.

The bluntness throws him but he rolls with it, recovers quick enough that he’s pretty sure the pause goes undetected.

“Well fuckin’ a, Stevie,” he says, pasting on his trademark grin. “With marshmallows and everything?” 

“Yeah, with marshmallows,” Harrington says, setting one mug on the table in front of the fire and flopping down with his own in one of the big leather chairs. “What, you think I’m some kind of barbarian or something?” Blowing across his mug, he looks closer at the record still in Billy’s hand. “And the music belongs to my mom.” He waves to take in the whole shelf of LP’s. “I don’t know what the hell any of it’s all about.” 

“It gotta be about something?” The cigarette’s dead and ground out in a nearby plant pot. Now Billy needs something else to do. Ain’t about to go blow on his hot cocoa and kick his feet up with Stevie-boy; start shootin the shit.

“According to my mom, yes.” 

“Fuck that.” Billy waves the thought off, takes the record in his hand over to the player along the wall with its gigantic fucking speakers. Now put some Metallica on through those babies and we’d be really talking, but desperate times…. All he’s got is what he’s got. Fuck it. This shit’s bound to be better than the cocoa-sweet quiet of this fancy-ass room.

The music flows, new at least, something to adjust to.

“You gotta call someone about the car?” Harrington’s voice is quiet, comfortable against the sound of strings. The lull of it has Billy pacing, rubs him the wrong way.

“Shit,” Billy says. “Was trying not to think about it.” He’d said it aloud. Hadn’t meant to. Fuck.

“Your folks gonna flip?” In an offhand way like he wouldn’t know. Like it’s just what he’s supposed to say. Pampered little bastard.

Yeah, flip. Something like that. 

Steve tilts his head back to follow Billy's movement. 

“Jesus, man. Can you just—sit down, drink your fucking cocoa? You’re giving me anxiety. I’ll still think you’re a hard-ass rebel, don’t worry.”

And because he says it like that, like a challenge, Billy’s fucked, stuck. He can’t look like he’s gonna sit here and follow orders, no no no, that’d set a real bad precedent. But he can’t let Harrington know that he can’t even manage to fucking just sit here for two minutes with the guy either. All still. And trapped. Sipping cocoa. His skin itches just thinking about it. 

Gotta choose, Hargrove. Gotta choose the lesser evil.

He sprawls in the chair and grabs the fucking cocoa like he’d planned on it all along, suppressing a scowl. But somehow he gets the feeling he ain’t fooling Stevie over there, anyway. He takes a resentful swallow. Fucking marshmallows.

“So your car, who’d you piss off?” Harrington’s head tilts Billy’s way, eyes huge from this angle and ringed in purple and black like fucking eyeshadow all sweat-smeared after sex in a hot car. And he’d just asked, right, he’d asked about Billy’s car.

“Some asshole.” Billy scoffs, sets his drink down with a clunk on the end table between them. Well that’s about enough of that. “Just ask, Harrington,” he says, because his feet hurt from all this dancing around the thing. “Cut the foreplay.”

“Ask?”

“What, you think I’m stupid?” Billy studies Harrington’s face for any change. “I start in about monsters and all of a sudden you play concerned for my fucking health, in a real big hurry to get me back to your place. I mean, I’ve gotta figure it’s so you can find out what I know about your big-deal secret. But now I’m here and nothing, and I’ve gotta tell you Stevie, your cocoa ain’t worth the trip. So just fucking ask. Stop. Being. A pussy.”

Harrington keeps looking at Billy, too long, testing his patience. It’s fine, the looking. He’s not really seeing Billy. He’s thinking. Billy can see the little gears. Finally Harrington looks away, shifts and steeples his hands, aborts and cracks his knuckles instead. Antsy. Real antsy.

“Yeah,” he says, like he wants to say something else but won’t. And what the fuck? “Yeah,” he says again. Idiot. Then he gets going. Gets on with it. “So what do you know? That night, you saw the—in the fridge, you saw it?”

“Yeah, I saw it.” Billy leans closer. “What the hell was it?”

Harrington ignores the question. Billy doesn’t press it cause he really doesn’t know if he even wants an answer. He really does, you know? But then, on the smarter hand, he really doesn’t.

“Figured you had." Harrington frowns. "Stupid to just leave it—leave you there to….” Quiet again. Jesus Christ, Billy's about to go out of his mind with this kid. “You see anything else?” the guy finally says. “Any other weird… anything weird since?” His big brown eyes are on Billy again, intent.

And that thing last night plops right into Billy’s head. Weird, yeah, check and double check, but he’s not about to give Harrington what he wants. Billy only smiles.

“Only your mom’s cum face.”

“Right.” Steve says, wrong-footed. “Right, yeah, you’re hilarious.” And he runs his hand back through his hair, suddenly on a whole new track and annoyed about it. Score. 

But it doesn’t really feel that way. Billy suddenly feels like a little kid thinking they’re real hot shit sitting at the grownups table. Like he’s being humored while the adults laugh at him all ”aww, how cute, he’s trying to fit in.” Like he has food all over his face and is just now realizing.

He stands, can’t stay sitting any longer. Doesn’t have to look far for an excuse.

“You got a bathroom in this giant fucking house of yours, or should I just piss in the plant too?”

“Jesus, man,” Steve says, like the wind is full out of his sails with Billy, all shaking his head. “You’re fucking unbelievable. Down the hall to the right, third door on your left. Maybe I better—” and he makes to get up.

Billy holds up a hand to stall that shit. Needs to get away from Harrington and this whole fucking trainwreck of a conversation.

“Right turn, 3 to the left. I’ll manage just fine, but thanks for lookin out.” And he almost winks, but he just don’t have the heart for it. Stop trying to be funny. You’re not funny.

Harrington sinks back into his seat with a “whatever” and a gesture of dismissal. And Billy’s free to roam. He takes that right-hand turn but the first door he comes to he almost can’t open. Like he’ll get in trouble or something. And he’s fucking worried about it. That’s enough to get him angry, and that anger’s enough to stoke his coals, get him cracking the door. Fuck trouble. He can handle trouble. 

It’s Steve’s room. Billy knows it the instant he opens the door. It’s all band posters and jeans hanging from the bedpost and magazines and tapes and the occasional midnight-snack dirty bowl. It’s the only part of this house so far that feels like an actual fucking house. Billy closes it back up quick and moves on down the line. A couple doors down is the parents room, at least he’s pretty sure it is. Vanity on one wall, mostly empty. Crisply made bed. Whole room seems a little stale, like the door hasn’t been opened in a while. It’s nice and bare and fucked up, just like the rest of the house. Like no one really lives here, touches anything, except for Harrington and whatever maid’ll be pulling the cigarette butt outta that plant pot. Where are Stevie-boy’s parents on this fine Saturday morning? Why the empty life, man?

Bored, he really does go take a leak, checks his reflection in the mirror—God, his hair is fucked—and rinses the taste of cocoa from his mouth. When he walks back into the room, it’s with some cutting comment on his tongue, tryin ta get Stevie riled up some more because that’s always been a good time. But he clamps his jaw shut on the words when he enters, slows his pace, footfalls coming down soft on the carpet. 

Steve’s sleeping.

Billy figures he’ll just leave Harrington to it, just stop being a pansy and face the music over his car at home, but instead he makes his way slowly back to the chair, quietly sinking into it, eyes never leaving that bruised and peaceful face. The music’s still going in the background and the fire is warm on Billy’s legs as he watches its light play on Harrington’s pretty-boy face. Pretty. Pretty boy. He has the sudden urge to slap Harrington awake.

But he doesn’t, just sits there all limp and drained, spaghetti’d out in the chair. The music seems familiar. Something from his childhood. Wherever the fuck he’d heard it before, it was someplace good. Someplace really good. He watches the rise and fall of Harrington’s chest and lets the song play out. Normally he’d be going out of his mind, so still and quiet—if he doesn’t exhaust himself enough to just pass out at the end of the day, he ain’t sleepin. But for whatever the fuck reason he’s fine here. And his head ain’t filling up with thoughts to smother him cause watching Harrington’s chest rise and fall has got it nice and blank, focused on the movement. Safe to look; safe cause Harrington’s sleeping. Peaceful. Cause Harrington can’t talk back when he’s sleeping and watching him sleep makes Billy feel almost… peaceful.

And he hasn’t felt peaceful since his mom… no, fuck her, fuck that bitch. He lobs her image from his brain before it can fuck all the motherfucking calm up that he’s got goin right now.

He watches the light play over Harrington’s pretty bruised face instead, counts the rise and fall waves of his chest, like the ocean when he’d gone there with—when he’d been so small and the waves had loomed and he’d thought they were beautiful even if they were monstrous. Anything could be inside. Soon enough, for the first time in a long time, he drifts peacefully off to sleep. But once he’s there his dreams can get at him. And those dreams come for blood; dark and poisoned and—

_Billy_

He jumps awake, gasping, and for a second he’s panicking, that sludge and gravel voice still grinding against his eardrums like he’d fucking heard it for real. And where the fuck is he? 

Once sleep lets loose of him he remembers the room. Sees that the fire—golden light playing over fading bruises— is just white ash with a few stubborn coals hanging on. And he’s alone. Shit. Harrington had woken up to find him still here. Like some homeless freak. 

He should’ve left. Should’ve walked right out the fuckin door when he’d come in and found Harrington all…. But if he had….

There’s a note on the end table next to his stone-cold cocoa with its rabies froth of marshmallows.

Didn’t want to wake you up, it said.

Also didn’t know your address, so I had them tow your car here, it said. 

You’re welcome, it said.

“Motherfucking pretty-boy bastard little bitch!” The words echo—still too loud on the rebound—back to him. The letter crumples in Billy’s fist and he pitches it into the coals, starting little flames dancing again.

He can’t owe Harrington. Can’t be in his pocket like—

Oh, that’s it. That’s fucking it. Harrington want’s war, he’ll have it.

Billy picks up the mug and splashes his sludged-up cocoa onto the coals, killing what fire remains. He finds his way to the front door and outside, where he should’ve gone hours ago. Definitely. And there it is—his car sitting there in Harrington’s gigantic empty driveway. A declaration, a first shot fired.

What a beautiful fucking day.

Even his dad can’t ruin it. When he gets to his house, Billy’s still got a spring in his step and an answer for every question. The lies come so easy and it all goes so well. So much better than it would’ve any other day. His dad is tucked behind a paper, distracted.

“Where’s your car, son?” Well, more distracted than usual.

“Some girl’s ex boyfriend got jealous at the party. Slashed the tires and beat on the windshield. One of my buddies towed it to his.” Delicate balance between chagrin and anger.

“Buddy? This buddy paid for your tow?” Suspicious, but in an offhand way. Safe.

“No, his uncle had a rig he could use.” Beautiful lie just popped into his head.

“Oh. Well then. Well let me know what you need to get her going again. A boy needs a car.” And hell, Billy’s not gonna argue with that.

“Will do.” Easy. Beautiful. This never happened.

Maxine watches from the kitchen, paused halfway through a pour of apple juice.

“And Billy,” his dad says. “Take Maxine to visit with her friends.” He throws Billy his truck keys. 

Billy looks back to Max and smiles, almost laughing when she spills juice over the counter.

“No problem.”

Billy’s all showered up; in his room and just about done dressing when he hears it. The soft knock, squeak of hinges as the door he thought he’d closed creeps open.

“ _Yes_?” It comes out irritated, sharpened at the edge, but mostly out of habit. Today’s a good day. Billy turns to see what the hell she wants.

“I’m not in your room.” Max’s eyes are wide, her words coming out in a rush before she can school her features. Scared still from the last time. Maybe even a little bit guilty over what she’d caused, first domino falling. Good. Stay scared, kid. Trauma is good for the memory.

Billy raises his eyebrows, waiting, universal code for “get the fuck on with it,” and she rolls her eyes, back to her normal bitchy self.

“We’re meeting at Mike’s house. He says his mom wants to talk to you.”

He tries not to grin but can tell he’s failing at the disgusted look Max throws him.

“Seriously, Billy? You’re a misogynistic—” a quick back and forth glance to make sure her mom or his dad aren’t around “—prick.” She still near whispers the last, using her eyes to fill in the emphasis. She shoulders a bag and looks down on him, which is a trick seeing as she’s about two feet shorter. “I’ll be in the truck.”

Dabbing a bit of cologne on for good measure, he begins styling his hair, not bothering to hurry. Let her cool her heels in the truck if she wants. See if he cares. He lets the grin go and it bursts to full size, a little bit feral, showing a bit too much tooth. Misogynistic, huh? He shakes his head. Should’ve never thrown her all those books at such a young age. Might’ve got her outta his hair easy back then, but now he has to deal with the vocabulary fallout. See what he gets for playing nice? Misogynistic.

He feels a little twisting pain in his chest for the way it used to be, up until those last days in Cali; till he’d found out how badly she’d betrayed the trust he’d given her. He misses the him he was back then, naïve little fucker that he was; misses the ability to get a full night’s fucking sleep, too. Misses her. Mad little Maxine with a temper that could appreciate his own, with all the grit her meek mother lacked. Yeah, he misses her sometimes. But he misses her like she’s dead. Like she’d died back there in California with his trust. He won’t ever forgive her. No fuckin way.

On their way to the Wheeler’s, Max watches him. He feels her thoughtful eyes on him like spider legs crawling. Before he can tell her to cut it the fuck out, though, she’s talking at him.

“I thought it would stop all this somehow.”

Well aren’t we out of nowhere.

“What the fuck is all this now?” He throws her a look, catches her sober eyes at full strength and looks back to the road. Safety first. 

“That night with the bat. I said leave me and my friends alone. But that was… it was shit. That was just me trying to be you, like always. I just want you to quit being whoever this dick is and start being my brother—” Her voice starts to go wobbly so she shuts down, scowls. He doesn’t even need to see to know she’s scowling. Then he thinks he hears a whisper.

“What was that?” It comes out sounding like he’d heard, like he’s just trying to be the dick she’s accusing him of being, the dick he is now, let’s face it. But in all honesty he just couldn’t fucking hear her.

“I’m sor—”

“Fuck your sorry.” He goes to turn on the music, but remembers when his fingers strike unfamiliar dials that they’re in the truck. There is no music. None that’ll help. And she’s boiling in the seat next to him. Doesn’t need to see to know that either.

“Im sorry!” She explodes like he knew she would, leaning in so that he’s lookin over just to make sure she’s not gonna throw a punch and send them careening off the road. She’s red in the face and glaring. “I’m _sorry_ , Billy! I’m sorry for back then and I’m sorry for now and you’re going to have to just— just fucking forgive me eventually!”

Movement in his peripheral, her hands drying the angry tears that had spilled over.

“You’re dead wrong there Max,” he says, not giving a shit about her tears. He’s calm. This is a good day. And if he squints hard enough he can even pretend that this little outburst is good too. Just part of it. Little Max throwing a tantrum over him not playing tea party with her anymore. Too funny. He can pretend that he’s feeling satisfaction, some kind of victory. But that sick twist in his chest isn’t having any of that. Won’t let him just fucking enjoy it. 

“I don’t have to do shit,” he says, pushing his defiance against that feeling and forcing it to back the hell off.

“All I did was sneak in your room and read a note! Stupid kid’s stuff!”

“You’re still a stupid—”

“Shut up!” She cuts him off, right up in his face now. Then her voice goes steely, resolved.

“You can’t hate me forever.”

“Sure,” he says, spits, despite himself. “But I don’t have to. I only have to hate you till one of us dies.”

And she’s quiet at that. Quiet for the rest of the short trip. He turns the engine off at the Wheeler’s curb and absently takes note of Max storming out of the truck, slamming the door. After that bullshit fades he just sits there for a bit, trying to remember why fucking with that stuck up bitch Nancy’s cougar mom had seemed like such a fun game. Sits there just willing that goddamn pinched feeling in his chest to fuck off for good without all the constant pushing, trying to get back in the spirit of it all.

This is a good fucking _day_.

By the time he walks up the path to the Wheeler’s front door, he’s almost convinced himself that those words, just words now without any real meaning, still hold true.

This is a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart


	4. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All safety bars down and appendages kept inside the vehicle for this ride on Billy's emotional roller coaster (or they'll be ripped the fuck off). Have fun! And hit me up after with any thoughts and feelings. Seriously. As a writer, I pretty much live for that shit. Thanks for reading!

Well, Mrs. Wheeler still wants to fuck Billy. Bad. 

He’d come into the room with a knowing smile, and she’d looked up, eyes all over the bruises on his face; not like a mom’s, like oh-sweetheart-let-me-disinfect-that. Nope. She’d looked and she’d bit her lip and forgotten all about whatever green shit she’d been cutting up when he’d strolled on into the kitchen. Her husband had let him in, opened the door for him, and that just made it better. Guy clearly wasn’t up to getting the job done himself. Look at her.

And no fucking wonder Mrs. Wheeler was bored. Her husband’d looked like he’d lose a fight to a stiff breeze. Looked half asleep, the sad sack. Oh well. His loss.

In the kitchen, the conversation is chugging along pretty much like he’d expected it would. Easy. It’s always been so easy with girls, with women. Easy to be confident. Females might play all complicated but as far as Billy can tell they all get wet over the same basic routine. Give em a well-sculpted bad boy playing nice; throw in a dash of handsome face, just a pinch of hidden depth and a couple shakes of danger and odds are they’ll be biting their lip and letting the garlic burn in no time. Just like Mrs. Wheeler here.

Yeah, chasing skirt’s a pretty fun game most days. Somethin like poker. Somethin to pass the time. And it makes his old man happy, which doesn’t hurt one bit. It just isn’t quite fun enough today.

It’s almost fun enough; almost swings the day around when he brushes his fingers—so light—against Mrs. Wheeler’s arm as he leans in to taste the pasta sauce she’s offering, blowing gently across the wooden spoon, the exhalation moving on, caressing her chest—and she’d full-on gasped, pupils dilating, her husband milling oblivious in the next room. But then little miss Nancy had come marching down the stairs like she was on a mission, like always, her mopey little boyfriend following close behind and her “Mom!” preceding her into the kitchen.

She swings on into the room all determined. 

“Mom, I’m going to—Billy Hargrove?” Says it all formal, Billy’s last name tacked on like he’s some person she’d never met in real-life, only seen in pictures or in movies or some shit. The way you say Harrison Ford or Rob Lowe, like that, only like Billy’s some actor she thinks on second thought might steal the silverware now that he’s right fucking here in her kitchen. Her eyes take in how close Billy is to her mother, whose cheeks are flushed and who looks guilty as fuck, really, when Billy looks over for a second. Well, she never can help but react, can she? Isn’t that why she’s such a fun toy?

Nancy’s face goes all thin-lipped and serious, like Billy’s in big trouble now. Heh.

“Can I talk to you a minute, Mom? _Alone_?” And she glares at Billy. Which is pretty rude considering they’d never fuckin met.

Well, fuck it, it was fun while it lasted. Throwing up his hands playfully, Billy passes Nancy a sly smile as he walks outta the room. Then he makes to take off—no point in sticking around now—but a hand on his shoulder stops him short. He looks back over that shoulder, over the hand, like, fucking-yes? just letting his raised eyebrows do his talking for him. Jonathan’s just standing there, face as dour as ever at the other end of that outstretched arm. What? What now?

“She won’t go through with it.”

“Who won’t do what now?” Billy takes Jonathan in, reassessing and throwing on a smirk for some camouflage against those knowing black eyes. Jonathan’s hand slithers off Billy’s shoulder, lowers to Jonathan’s side, but it may as well not have moved. His next words keep Billy real still without its help.

“Nancy’s mom. She won’t. And I think you know it.”

It’s all hands on deck to hold the fucking smirk up after that. But Billy rallies. The sudden hot hit of anger helps with that real well. Just what—exactly—is this sonovabitch trying to say?

“That so?” Billy asks, and leans a bit closer, all confidential-like. “And what would you know about going through with it? Huh, Byers?”

Jonathan goes all squinty, but Billy doesn’t bother letting him answer. Billy’s done.

“Like daughter like mother so I shouldn’t even bother? That what you’re sayin?” And he leers for good measure before his face falls blank and he turns to go. He needs a smoke. Can’t fucking do it in the truck either. Shit.

It’s too much. Day’s gone wrong and there’s no help for it now. Just gotta fuckin ride out the downhill slide.

Prepared for more bad to come, it doesn’t surprise Billy at fucking all when Harrington swings around a corner and THUDs into his chest when he’s not four feet from the door. The quick zip of pain that shoots up his arm when Harrington’s hand grips hard for purchase just below his elbow does though, forces him to pry his jaw open a bit to cut off a hiss. Can’t hide the gasp though, and Billy can tell that Harrington can tell he’s hurt Billy when his grip slacks right on up and his eyes pop a little wider. 

Billy wishes Harrington’d just gripped harder instead, pressed the newfound weakness till it broke. It’d be a real favor. But no, fuckin nice guy goes and puts Billy further in the hole, in his debt. Billy shakes him off before he can right himself and he almost falls on his ass; catches himself last second, hand hitting the wall with a SMACK that sounds painful. Good.

Billy purposefully _doesn’t_ cradle his arm, schooling his face to neutral as the pain whips and slowly— _slowly_ fades. But it doesn’t disappear.

“Steve?” Nancy says, just coming in. No Steve Harrington, either. Just Steve. Old buddies.

“Shit,” Stevie whispers, and probably only Billy hears. Then he looks up, speaks up, wiping off the face he’d just pulled. “Yeah, hey Nance. Jonathan.”

“You were here? And you didn’t….” Her eyes drift to Jonathan. Back to Steve. “You could’ve said hi.”

God, this is gonna be horrible. Billy smiles.

“Sure I could have,” Steve says. “Course I could have.”

Nancy’s eyes go cold, then shift right on over to hot.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Steve sighs, “Jesus, do I really have to explain?” The “I thought you were supposed to be smart, figure it the fuck out” went without saying.

“What, so we’re not friends anymore now that—” her eyes jump to Billy and she stops abruptly. Which intrigues the hell outta him. Secrets on secrets on secrets with these people.

“Nance,” Steve says carefully, bordering just shy of don’t-confuse-the-toddler speak. “We never _were_ friends.”

“You _asshole_!” Nancy’s fists are balled and she stalks forward, barred by Jonathan’s wrapping arm trying to shepherd her off.

“Language!” from the next room. Her dad? Jesus, too funny.

Steve slumps against the wall, runs an aggressive hand through his hair. 

“I’m not trying to… listen, I’m just—” So tired. “I’m just being honest.”

Really? That it Stevie? All the fight run dry, and so soon? Billy’s grin falls flat. Don’t just stop. Don’t just give up like a little baby bitch and take it. What the fuck? 

It bothers him. And it bothers him that it bothers him so fuckin much, too.

So his mouth opens on the crest of that unease and stupid shit comes plopping out. Again. Think he’d be able to stop it by now with all the practice he’s got under his belt.

“Probably didn’t want to walk in on you two fucking.” Billy’s flat gaze leaves Nancy’s widening eyes to seek out Jonathan’s, still resentful. “Not that there was much chance of that.”

She sputters, and Billy feels a mean happiness flood his chest at the show of weakness, at her total inability to deal with him right now, this stranger talking to her like this in her own house. Ambush attack. 

“Do you just—live—up your own ass?” he goes on, oblivious to everything but the incredulity melting to hurt on her face. “You two _just_ —Jesus, how the fuck am _I_ the one explaining other people’s feelings to you? Harrington,” he says, not turning away from her, keyed into every movement, like she’s the little mouse to his snake, like she’s prey. “Amigo, honestly, what did you see in this bitch?”

Two for one.

And her mouth is just hanging open now, not even able to try to form a response. Johnathan, probably more used to this sort of exchange, steps up, black eyes glinting.

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

Billy's laugh is dialed in to hurt, to kick up a temper.

“Or _what_? Or what, Byers? Gonna sic your crazy-ass mom on me?”

Yes. Fucking yes. The last barb hits Jonathan where it hurts and he launches at Billy, fists untrained and wild. God, Billy’d needed a fight. He hadn’t known how much until this moment.

But it ain’t exactly satisfying. 

He’s got Byers pinned to the wall by the neck after the kid’s only landed a single solid hit. Billy’d never even bothered throwing a punch. Wouldn’t’ve been worth it. And Byers is just pinned there, making this strangled wheezing sound in his throat that’s… it’s… it’s just so fucking disappointing.

Billy’s about to let go, completely fucking done with this whole godawful scene, when the crook of an elbow lodges itself hard against his throat.

“Enough.” A hot breath, a whisper, in his ear.

He tries his best to laugh through the strangulation. Does a pretty good job. Rich-boy scent all in his nose and he knows who’s got him. Harrington, man, you’re beautiful. Defending Byers? The prick that’s dicking your girl, or—more likely, the poor shmuck—wishing he was? Christ. What are you, Jesus or something?

Billy realizes after a bit that there are others in the entryway now. Nancy’s mom, who’s looking at him like she’d dodged a bullet. All the kids, standing there staring like baby owls, including Max who’s just wide-eyed-staring at the floor, looking so ashamed of him. Fucking ashamed. That’s a laugh. Ha. And the—can’t even say it with a straight face—man of the house, who walks up close and finally addresses Billy, hand on his shoulder.

“I think it might be time for you to leave, Son.”

You think? Yeah, it’s past time. Fuck this house and all the people in it.

Billy shakes off Harrington so he can release Byers with one last shove into the wall. He doesn’t even bother to look back. He’s gone.

He guns it home, abusing the transmission, taking turns too fast—the empty bed of the truck skidding dangerously behind him. Once he’s home he just sits there in the quiet cab, listening to the engine ticking as it cools. His fucking arm hasn’t stopped hurting. His fucking head hurts now on top of it. He sits there in the silence till he can’t stand it any longer and just fucking lets out the roar that’d been caged up in his chest. He batters the steering wheel till it feels like all the bones in his hands are broken. And he's fucking starting to tear up now too, fat drops flowing over, stinging and hot and he burns off the embarrassment from that with more rage.

After a while he’s drained it off enough, worn himself out enough, to go inside. It’s quiet when he enters, and the smell is overwhelming. Cookies. Chocolate chip. 

“How much chocolate chips did you put in?” The echo of his 6-year-old self fills his head.

“Mmm? Hmm, let’s see. One-thousand six-hundred aaaand forty-four.” His mom smiles, all sunshine and blue eyes down at him.

“More than last time.” He nods sagely, hair falling in his eyes, not even questioning.

She nods, smiling wider. Beeps him on the nose.

“Oh yeah, way more than last time. I promised.”

He’s slapped back into the present by the sound of a voice and for one crazy second thinks it might be hers. Mom.

It’s not.

“Billy, you’ve got to keep quiet, okay? Your father’s taking a nap,” Susan stage whispers, emerging from the kitchen. “Do you want a—” Then she sees him. “Billy?” She forgets to whisper. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

He can feel the tears, wet on his face, molten and rolling. Guess he hadn’t run out after all. But there’s nothing he can do about them now so he just acts like they aren’t there, like they’re not still coming, following fat glistening tracks cutting embarrassingly deep down his cheeks. He looks at Susan with all the cold he has inside, all he can muster.

“Everything’s peachy, Susan.” He smiles, but it’s as cold as his eyes and her eyebrows come together when he does it, hurt. “A-okay. Yup.” 

Then he’s past her, moving on. Running away. Today can suck a dick. He retreats into his room, peeling off his shirt and pitching it into a far corner. He’s got a plan. Gonna lift till he’s dead, till he can pass out, and fuck his arm and fuck the pain in it—it can heal on its own time.

But he’s not even one set in and there’s knocking at the front door. And today being what it is, it’s not gonna be some fucking Mormon that Susan can send off with a cookie and a polite no-thank-you. Nope. And today being what it is, when the knock comes again, louder, and the doorbell gets involved, he hears squeaking movement from his dad’s room too. Angry grumbling.

Typical.

A hesitant knock on Billy’s door. He defiantly pumps one more rep and then racks the barbell, walks over and rips open the door. Susan flinches when he does, like she though he might— Just a little flinch, but he’d seen, and— And he’d never meant to— Fuck.

“I’m—it’s for you, the door.” And she throws one last worried glance over her shoulder as she hurries back to the kitchen.

“Thanks,” he says. But she doesn’t hear him. He wouldn’t have said it so she could.

Out in the hall and Neil is peeking out of his cracked open bedroom door with one squinted eye, looking like some monster out of a fairy tale and making Billy wanna just turn back around and lock himself in his room.

“You and your buddy keep it down out there.” The eye is dead on him. Fucking creepy.

“Yeah, alright, fine.”

And he freezes, expects something. Some retribution. The silence after he says it, after that flippant response, feels like the staticky moment before a lightning strike. But nothing happens. Another grumble and Neil’s door clicks shut, that terrible eye gone.

Billy finds he can move once more, so he goes to see what-exactly-the-fuck, feeling like he’s been hit so hard that he’s too shocked to feel the damage yet. Feels like pain saving itself up for later.

And pain now too, apparently. Free with purchase. Because he opens the front door on Steve fucking Harrington.

Harrington’s big brown eyes see him the way they always do. See him real. See him like this, all red-eyed and thrown off his game. Fucking not ready to act right now. And there’s some change in them once he takes Billy in, but fuck if Billy can tell what it is, what it means.

“We need to talk,” Harrington says, leaned up too-fucking-cool in Billy’s doorway. King Steve now for sure, all regal composure, demanding his attention. “Don’t you think?”

And sure. Sure. Why the fuck not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead


	5. A Quiet Fixation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never felt so simultaneously benevolent and evil in my entire life. Enjoy! The support meeting will be held after in the comments section. Happy reading!

Yeah, let’s chat.

“Thought you didn’t know my address,” Billy begins, unimpressed. 

He steps up and blocks the door. Harrington doesn’t take the hint, just leans in further, all, you-gonna-invite-me-in-or-what?

No, Billy’s crossed arms reply. You can fucking freeze.

“Billy, please shut the door.” From the kitchen. “It’s getting cold in here.”

Feels fine to him.

“Your mom’s home?” Harrington says it like it’s a novelty. Like he hadn’t considered parents in his plans. “Can we, uh, talk in your room or something?”

“Not my mom,” Billy says sharply, pushing him back outside. “And not in my room.” Not with Neil in the house. Fuck no. 

“We can go out back,” he continues. “I could use a smoke anyway.” And he really fucking could. Had forgotten before walking inside. Been too messed up to remember. Now it’s been far too long and he feels the tight dentist-drill craving for one buzzing up through his fuckin teeth. But he pushes the door shut slowly. Doesn’t slam it like he really wants to.

“Yeah, alright,” Harrington says, raising an eyebrow at him. “You maybe wanna put something on first?”

Billy looks down, remembering only then that he’s not wearing a shirt. He shrugs. Fuck it. The cold feels nice after all the anger and hot embarrassment and he’s too wrung out by now to give a shit. Yeah, Stevie-boy can just fuckin deal.

“Nope.” Enjoy the view, Princess.

Billy fishes out a cigarette and pops the filter between his teeth, waving for Harrington to follow. Winds up sitting on that same fucking bench he’d spent all night on not too long ago, posting up now all wide-legged and sprawled out and not about to share. Which leaves Harrington standing over him, and he could really do without that shit. But it leaves him the real winner, in the end, so in the end it’s alright. It’s a tiny fuckin bench. He ain’t about cuddling.

“So, Stevie, why you here, huh?” Billy smiles sharply, patting his pockets for a lighter. “And please tell me all this isn’t over Nancy Wheeler’s fuckin feelings.” 

Harrington rolls his eyes, pulling out a zippo with one hand while swiping the cigarette from between Billy’s teeth with the other. Billy queues up a glare but— Harrington’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip as he flicks the zippo open and fires it up. And Billy’s eyes are pulled along with his cigarette as it moves to rest between Harrington’s lips, gaze snapping to follow the motion when Harrington lights it, takes a drag. He watches the fucker examining the cherry, blowing his smoke out across it till it glows bright and even, taking one real hit then leaning back down towards Billy, arm outstretched, and casually, so casually, holding the lit cigarette back between Billy’s teeth, just waiting, blowing a plume of smoke upwards and away from Billy’s face, all considerate-like. 

Billy almost lets the thing drop, ice and fire fighting it out in the pit of his stomach. But instead he accepts the offering, takes a drag, very carefully not noticing the little circular patch of filter that’s wet from Harrington’s lip when it makes contact with his own. Sloppy bastard.

“It’s not,” Harrington says. Not much to go on.

“Well, great.” Billy takes another drag, that little wet patch definitely not there, not laying cool against his lip. Pulling the filter away, he flicks out his tongue, smooths it over the cool spot, warming it, making it disappear.

“So?” Billy gestures him to go on.

“I don’t need you defending me, for starters.” Harrington crouches down for a moment and his hand darts forward, towards Billy’s hand, the pad of his thumb brushing against the back of that hand as he picks up the cigarette between pointer and middle and raises it back to his lips, takes another hit, standing again. Smoke pours from his mouth when he continues. “Can’t see why the hell you would, actually. Feel like cluing me in?”

“Oh, none of that was about you, Princess. Wasn’t about anything really, just….” Of course he’s gonna lie. Not gonna come right out and say that if Harrington would just stop doing him favors thanks-so-much, Billy wouldn’t have to do shit. Wouldn’t be flailing trying to pay Harrington back, somehow. Failing trying to perform a few goddamn good deeds that may as well be miracles they’re so fucking impossible for him. But Billy’s gotta get outta Harrington’s pocket, ya’know? 

So if Harrington could just stop being such a nice guy for a solid fucking second, let him catch on up….

Billy gestures for the cigarette, for his turn since apparently they’re taking turns now, and wonders when his smoke had become a shared commodity. 

“What can I say, I get bored,” Billy finishes. 

Harrington takes one more hit and crouches down between Billy’s legs to hand it back, fuckin close. Fuckin right there. Smoke drifts on Harrington’s warm breath over Billy’s shoulder. His finger brushes Billy’s knuckle, nicks it, as it comes in to pass the cigarette off, a sharp point of contact. With his other hand he pushes his floppy fucking hair back from his face, showing off the marks, those still-dark bruises, and his eyes are so close now, big and fucking dark and fucking locked up tight on Billy’s.

“Here.” Harrington nods for Billy to take the cigarette. He does, ashing it. “No, I mean I get that.” And Harrington stands, moves away. Billy closes his legs enough so the guy can’t fit between them again, leans forward, adjusting. “But it’s also bullshit,” Harrington goes on. “I think a lot of your whole… thing, is bullshit actually.” And he laughs. “Guess it’s a takes one to know one type of deal.”

“You’re bullshit too, huh?” Billy never would’ve guessed. He finally takes a hit and blows the smoke out through his nose, liking the way it burns.

“Yeah. I’m working on it, though.” Harrington rubs his hands together. “It’s seriously cold out here. We can’t just go inside?”

“No.” He’d seen Neil stalk past a window not two minutes ago. Inside isn’t happening. “Thought you had something real hush-hush to talk about.”

“Yeah, I do,” Harrington says then stops, looks down at him over a shoulder. “What, you’re in some kind of rush all of a sudden?” Then he comes back over, leans in again, takes the cigarette again. Licks his pink lips. Takes a hit. “Thought you were cozy out here. Seriously though,” he says on the exhale, “how are you half naked right now?” And his eyes sweep down Billy’s chest. It’d happened a few times over the course of the conversation, that casual sweep. Billy had clocked it, but hadn’t minded, used to it. Better than Harrington studying Billy’s face like always.  
This time, Harrington’s gaze snags on something and doesn’t come back up. 

“Shit, Man,” he says. “What happened there?”

The guy crouches again, snuffs out the dead cigarette and lays his hands full on Billy’s arm like it’s just one more thing that belongs to him. Billy shakes them off, skin too warm where they’d been.

“It’s fine.”

“That,” Harrington says decidedly, “does not look fine. You’re not fine, man. Find you passed out frozen in the woods this morning and then—and then you’re defending me, and when I drive over here to see what the hell’s up with _that_ you’re answering the door looking like you’ve been—” He stops, cuts off the word, sparing Billy. “You’re just, you’re not fine, okay. Don’t bullshit me. What’s going on with you?”

“What the fuck is this?” Billy almost stands, wanting to pace. But on second thought, fuck that. He gestures instead, taking in Harrington and this whole fucking conversation. “Why are you here _giving_ a rats ass about what I do, about my arm? I don’t even know you. And you fucking definitely don’t know me. But look,” Billy says, making sure Stevie-boy hears every word. “I’ll make it real simple, just listen. Far as you’re concerned, all I am is the guy who swooped in and stole your shit. That’s it. That’s the end of the story. You got that, Compadre?”

Harrington gives a dark little chuckle at that, leaning back with it, before looking down on Billy again.

“Compadre,” Harrington says. Then he lets out a TSK noise, all mocking air, fucking TSKs Billy. “Shut the fuck up with—” His voice is strained, gone wheezy, real amused. “So fucking—” And he starts laughing, really laughing. At Billy. And it’s so unexpected that all Billy can do is sit there, staring, while Harrington fights for a pause between laughs. 

“Oh,” he says, laughs again, just the once, “and that _shit_ , by the way? That you stole? Yeah, that shit you can have. My blessing.” 

And that’s it. Apparently after that Harrington’s done with the laughing and a dense kind of mostly solid quiet sets up between them. And what the fuck’s Billy supposed to say to break that? After that laughter, sitting in that silence that’s smothering him like lime-fucking-Jello, impossible to think through. Can he just deck the motherfucker? Laughing at him like— But then Harrington’s lookin at Billy all serious, lookin away, eyes coming on back again, like he’s lost in his head, like he’s wanting to say too many words all at once. He swallows and Billy tracks the movement, can’t help himself, still stunned, mesmerized and un-fucking-able to react. Finally the guy seems to find his way out of his head with something to say. Then again, maybe he just gives up. 

“I just—” And then he looks up quick, dead-eyed stares into Billy’s soul for a second, like listen-the-fuck-up-bud. All force. But whatever it is slips away as soon as it appears, some half-fable river monster swum back into the muddy depths of those fucking brown eyes.

“Just… hold still, okay?” And Harrington lays hands on Billy once more, holding his arm. Billy wants to fight, but it’s not… it’s just not fun when he knows that Harrington won’t fight back. Too busy being nice, the fucker. So Billy gives up for today, gives in and sits still so that Harrington can have his look. Billy looks down at the little cut too, wondering how Harrington had even noticed it. When he does it’s pretty fucking obvious why the guy noticed. The tiny little cut isn’t what it was. No no no.

It’s fucked, now.

Billy stiffens, tries not to let the fear that trickles cold little paths through him show on his face. The little cut has gone shiny, black and swollen. Dark veins run outwards from it in a two inch radius. What happened? How? What the fuck? What the fuck?

“It was worse,” Billy finds himself saying, head floating, feeling faint, pulse a hummingbird thrum. “Antibiotics are working now.”

Where the fuck?

And Harrington looks up at him, looks up with those eyes, and Billy meets them like he isn’t lying through his teeth. Sells it. It’s important that he….

What the fuck?

Harrington nods, drops Billy’s arm and shoulders Billy to the side so he can sit down on the bench next to him, too warm and solid all down his side. The arm still burns where Harrington’s hands had been. Still hurts where he’d been grabbed by Harrington earlier. And now he knows why.

It’s fucked. His arm is fucked. That thing in the woods had fucked him.

Billy sure as shit isn’t telling Harrington the truth about it, though. Trusting him with it, with this, with anything. It’s fine. Billy can handle it. He really does have antibiotics kicking around somewhere and he’ll just start taking them. Easy fix. No problem.

“So why the fuck are you here?” Billy says. “What’d you need to tell me?” He’s deflecting, needing Harrington to fuck off right now before he starts hyperventilating.

“Yeah. Why. Good question. Don’t know,” Harrington says, all no-big-deal. So fucking honest. His voice is soft, relaxed; Billy makes himself pay attention. “I mean, technically I have stuff I wanted to tell you—not anything important, just probably a bunch of crap.” And he looks off over his shoulder, away for a bit, quiet again. But this quiet is better. And his eyes come back and find Billy, like always. “Shit,” he breaths, “I guess really I just didn’t want to go home.”

“Hmm.” Billy really doesn’t know what the fuck to say to that. Can’t think. But Harrington’s quiet after. Appeased. Apparently Billy’d said enough.

The sun is setting, and for a while they’re both quiet, Billy waiting for Harrington to just fucking leave already; just fucking waiting for it to happen in a stress-sweat manic thrum, watching that fat red sun be slowly devoured by the big dark forest with its jagged pine teeth. 

After a while, without Billy really noticing it happen, his heart begins to slow. His thoughts, too. He’s calm enough that each breath doesn’t pull so tight into his chest. Turning, Billy looks at Harrington’s profile as the guy watches the sunset, face gone red with it.

The quiet is fine with Harrington around. Why is it always so fine with him?

Why is it so fucked the rest of the time?

Like later that night. Fucked like then. All alone in bed and dry-eyed staring up into his ceiling; the quiet is a different fucking matter entirely then.

After Harrington had left, he’d found the antibiotics and popped one, hoping it was still good. Tried to lift again but the pain had gotten worse and it was just no use. Barely could turn the steering wheel when he’d had to go out and pick up Max, who’d just got into the truck and rode back home so deeply quiet the whole time that her silence had felt like a weapon. And he felt wounded.

Now, laying here with the quiet buzzing deafeningly loud in his ears, he isn’t nearly ready for sleep. Isn’t gonna get any. But he’s lying here anyway, head on the pillow in the godawful quiet and impatiently waiting for the sun to rise.

Fuck it. Not gonna just lie here. His hand runs under the sheet that ripples against his bare skin in the breeze from the open window. Runs down his chest to brush through his pubic hair, teasing. Finally he’s done fucking around, he palms himself.

And he thinks of Mrs. Wheeler, his hand cupping his dick now, feeling its weight—go slow at first, loose grip, just a taste. Thinks of the way she’d sucked in a shaky breath, tits popping with it, when he’d seen her earlier. But Nancy’s disapproving face keeps cutting in, fucking it up, and it’s enough to make him go soft. Gets him right the fuck off that track, good job, and so he moves on down the line. 

That girl at the party then, last night, what’s her name? Fuck it. Feels her breath in his ear again, how heavy it was, full of the pent-up moans she’d been trying to keep to herself, afraid of being caught. 

Could be anybody breathing, heavy like that, breaths climbing higher and ragged now and shaking and—coming faster and so wrecked and fucking faster faster fuck, yeah, that’s—that’s working. Really running his dick now—wishes for some lotion or something, but it’s—God, it’s just fine without because he’s leaking now and—and it’s— Yeah. And it’s breath in his ear all desperate and needy and—f-fuck—fucking breath in his other ear now and he shivers at the crossover and… _his_ —ah—hot wet breath and the—hard body pressed behind him all down him the—whisper, _enough_ , hard whisper and those—eyes fucking brown fucking brown eyes on him down his—chest now down and—lower fuck lower down him and the— marks around those eyes so dark so—pretty so fu— oh God oh _fuck_... marks so goddamn fucking good so—g- _good_ , marks like _mine_ and a—t-tongue, fucking wet running pink _pink_ lips those—lips tongue tip touching and the—a-and—the—nnn—

And he’s gasping after, a while after, coming down from it. And it’s, God it’s so good, leaves him all loose and floaty. Pain’s nowhere to be seen, now. Can’t be bothered to hate himself yet. Yeah, he’s feelin real good now. And warm. Relaxed. So he cleans himself up lazily using some shirt he finds tucked half under his bed, pitching it off into a dark corner after, and he closes his eyes on this horrible fucking day…

…then wakes up cutting off a scream. Burning. He’s burning. He’s—

Falling out of bed and he lumbers to his feet, already running. Crashing, scrabbling at his door and he’s so loud, so loud and he’s gonna wake up his— His hand finds the door handle and he rips it open, escapes down the— the bathroom door is open and he almost slips on the rug, catches himself on the sink still wet and slippery on his palms— Wet hand is THUMPing out to meet the wall and sliding up all SHREE and catching the switch up. Blind. Blind. Looks through the pain. Looks deep in the mirror and the black veins are everywhere they’re fucking everywhere they’re—oh God— In the tub and stomping on the drain and scratching at the handle to the—cold, cold water, make it cold—tap and that cold cold water slides beautiful and quenching up under his calves and his thighs and his back and it’s too slow too slow; but he waits. All he can do is wait. And burn.

And he stays there all night. Alone. In the quiet.

And it’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia


	6. Sweet Smell of Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, our pal Billy was real reluctant on this one. Hope you like! Drop me a comment after and I'll be much obliged.

The white tile walls glow up brighter with the rising sun.

But it happens slowly. And it’s the same with Billy’s head as it clears. 

Things reconnect in fits and starts and so it’s not like the fuckin sunrise at all really—his memories fizzing back into existence by the dozen, then ribboning in with a slow honey trickle. His awareness hazing in, too clear, then sweeping back out to nonexistence, waves of reality just lapping at his senses.

But it does happen slowly. Like the rising fucking sun comes on slowly. So the metaphor stands; fuck if he’s gonna look for a better one.

At some point he’s just there all of a sudden, fully, all present and accounted for and staring up at a wide-eyed Max in the doorway who covers her face, almost slapping herself she does it so quick, and with an “oh my goddamn god, Billy,” turns around and beats a quick retreat.

Billy rises, trying to remember what time it’d been when—how long he’d been in the damn water, but comes up empty. The whole goddamn night’s gone empty after he’d seen that fucking nightmare in the—

And it’s back.

He sloshes quick out of the tub and makes it in two slippery steps to the mirror, where he drips, pools. But his eyes are on the sink. On the blackness down the drain. He can’t look up.

Has to look. Goddammit Hargrove, grow a pair.

He swallows and presses his closed fist, nails biting the palm, into the countertop. 

Looks up. 

And he’s there staring back at himself, eyes too vulnerable, like some little punk kid wary of a whipping. But it’s him. Just him. The black veins are gone.

He raises his arm, cocks it to inspect the wound. That’s gone now too. Not just better but gone. Like it’d never fucking been.

But it had. Right? Fucking had to have been, right?

Noise from Neil’s room has him ducking out into the hall and quick-timing it to his room to put on some fucking clothes before Susan catches an eyeful of his water-wrinkled ballsack too.

And in the space between the bathroom and the sanctuary of his bedroom, he makes the decision to forget. Fuck last night. Last night never happened.

So when he enters his room, it’s with all memory of that thing in the woods, that bullshit with his arm, the loss of control of his actions and even those black fucking veins snaking under his skin ripped ragged from his conscious and buried messy in a deep dark hole at the very fucking back of his head. Let it rot.

After that, it’s a pretty good day. Not bad at all.

And Monday comes and he’s back in school like everything’s normal. Cause everything _is_ fucking normal, ya see? Get with the program.

He’s sitting at lunch, Tommy and Carol across the table from him, the two of them bout to make him puke. Fucking pair of em, finishing each other’s sentences while they’re tryin to figure out who they should nominate to throw the next big party. It’s like watching some mob movie, sitting here with the two of them. And he feels almost sorry for the next poor schmuck who’s about to get an offer they can’t refuse. 

Not sorry enough that he won’t help with the convincing, though. He could use a party right now—not that he _needs_ one, of course. Not that everything isn’t cool. Because it is.

“God,” Carol says, “Sometimes I miss Steve. That big empty house made my life so much easier.” Then she looks to Billy. “Hey,” she says, sly little grin. “Where do you live, Billy? Wanna throw a party?”

Billy scoffs. “Yeah. I do. Bout as much as I want the clap. Go bark somewhere else with that shit.” Like hell he’s gonna give up an address. These two aren’t friends. They’re just useful. They’ll only ever get to know School Billy. Party Billy. They’ll never meet Home Billy. That asshole has to stay hidden away like some dirty secret, too small and twitchy and unsure to be trusted in polite company. No, he’s never met one person that he trusted enough to even talk about home, much less invite them on in to shake hands with Neil. And Real Billy… well Real Billy ain’t ever gonna see the light of day, let’s be honest. Not once in his miserable goddamn life. Because fuck Real Billy. What a chump _that_ guy is.

Tommy laughs at Carol. “Oh, and it bounces off the rim. So close. Sorry, Sweetheart. Points for tryin, I guess.” And he scoops a few french fries off his tray for Carol, steals her fruit cup like he’d been doin it since the second grade or some shit. They go on eating, smiling comfortable smiles. God he fucking hates them sometimes.

Billy’s bored eyes flick back over to the table where Nancy and Jonathan are eating. View was better when she was dating Harrington. 

Wonders where the fucker eats now.

He swipes a french fry over his plate, goring it with ketchup, and pops it in his mouth, an unpleasant anxious ache in his chest and his mind slipping off to another lunchtime half a continent and a few months back down the line.

Off to California like fuckin always.

In the memory, he’s eating alone. Doesn’t _have_ to eat alone—fuck no, he has his choice of lunchroom crowds; that’s what makes the eating alone alright, permissible like it just isn’t for any of those losers that don’t have anywhere else to be. It’s just, every once in a goddamn while, he likes eating without all the politics for a change. When he ain’t in the mood to play nice.

Like today, with the ache of a rib that might just be fucking broken to contend with and the muscles in his cheeks sore from keeping the grimace off his face through all his morning classes. 

Neil’s having problems at work. This is somehow Billy’s fault. Same old bullshit, different excuse. But that last fight was right on the motherfucking edge of as bad as it got between them, and that fight had just happened, just this morning while Max and her fucking mom had gone off to eat a nice breakfast on Neil’s dime. 

So right now, he doesn’t want to deal. Just wants to eat his fucking PB&J in peace, thanks-so-much.

But he can’t. Of course he can’t. 

“Hamlet should have just offed himself and saved us all reading half a play full of nothing but his whining.”

Someone’s standing over Billy, casting a dark shadow across his fucking sandwich. He holds back a sigh. Doesn’t want to breathe too deep.

“Help you with something, Amigo?” It comes out as annoyed as he’d intended, but with an added undercurrent of pain. He’d jostled his rib lookin up.

It was the TA. One from Snyder’s class. English. The fuck did he want, standing over Billy spouting off about Hamlet?

“You just saved me from three hours of grading hell with that essay. Solid gold, my friend.” And his eyes are dark and scanning Billy’s face like he’s trying to peek through it into Billy’s brain or somethin. And he’s lookin a little bit don’t-give-a-fuck scruffy in just the right goddamn way over a mostly polished shine. So when he says “wanna duck out behind the bleachers and smoke a grade-A high-quality hand-rolled joint with me?” all Billy can think to say is,

“uh, yeah. Sounds just about goddamn perfect, actually.” Too perfect. Billy tries to plant his feet, waiting for the rug to start sliding out from under. Guy could be a narc—guy's _probably_ a narc. But the guy only smiles and his teeth are very white and a little too sharp in the canines, just like Billy’s.

“Good,” he nods. “That’s good. It’s Billy right? I’ve noticed you in class.” 

The temperature in the hall spikes twenty degrees. 

“I’m Wes, if you don’t remember.”

Oh, he remembers. Billy is floundering, stands up cause he doesn’t know what else the fuck to do, almost drops his sandwich, not knowing what to do with that either, with his hands, acting all awkward like he never fucking is and is he blushing? Is he actually fucking blushing?

What?

“Yeah, Wes, yeah I remember,” he says, mortified when his voice comes out a little shaky. He remembers, alright. He’s been watching this guy chewing on a pen at the front of the classroom since the semester had started. Fucking memorizing his face and body and voice and hands and the set of his shoulders and the way that his tongue darts out when he’s really concentrating and only now is he realizing how fucking creepy that was. How fucked up he is. He clears his throat as if that’ll knock the fucking guilty tremble out of it. “Right, yeah, I’m Billy.”

“Billy? Billy, _hellooo_.”

Tommy. It snaps him back to the present.

“Man, wake the fuck up. I said Harrington is coming this way.”

That gets his attention right-quick. By the time he turns, though, Harrington is already there, looming.

“Out in the hall. Just you.”

And the words sound like there’s about to be a fight, but the way Harrington says em is so flat that Billy can’t get a read. Got him getting up anyway though, just on the off-chance. Yeah, he’s definitely following.

Because he’s a sucker.

Once they’re alone in the hall, Harrington flashes him a razor-thin smirk.

“Knew that would get you moving.”

And Billy’s pissed, can feel himself glaring, winding up tight. Harrington leans into a locker, unfazed.

“I need you to move your car,” he says.

Billy laughs, one incredulous burst.

“Should’ve had them tow it to my house then, huh?” And once again Billy’s gonna have to explain the real world to this kid. “I can’t just go out and buy the parts whenever, you know—burn through a little pocket change. My dad won’t have money to loan me for the tires till payday, and that ain’t today.”

“I bought new tires. Got the windshield fixed too. I just need it gone before my parents—”

But whatever stupid shit Harrington’s about to say next is cut off when he hits the lockers with an echoing CLANG, Billy’s hand wrapping his throat. Billy feels Stevie-boy swallow against his palm.

“You did what now?” And Billy sounds calm. He ain’t. He’s lapped furious is all. Gone all around the motherfucking track ahead of it and now he’s caught right back up. “You did fucking _what_ now?” His hand presses tighter and he watches as Harrington’s face goes red and veiny.

Then Harrington knees Billy, barely catches the nuts—light glancing blow like the fucker hadn't really been aiming at all—and Billy's stumbling back at even that, doubled over, a burning fish hook running through him and pulling down, trying to reel him up into the fetal position. Billy looks up, expecting an attack, trying to shake the nauseating pain off so he can deal with the fucking attack that has to be coming because he wants it, needs it. But Harrington’s just gasping, back still up against those lockers, looking down at Billy with half-lidded eyes and the outline of a half-hard cock visible through his stretched-tight fucking jeans. A beat of molten silence catches them up, but after, Harrington’s eyes skate away; he shifts, and Billy’s not sure anymore that he’d seen what he’d seen because there’s nothing to see there now. Now Harrington’s just watching Billy, apathetic as always.

“Be at my car after school so I can give you a ride.”

And with one last look, fucking destroying Billy with its indifference, Harrington pushes off the lockers and strolls off.

Leaving Billy standing there about two inches tall.

Steps echo to his right. Tommy, come to check up, see if there’s a good fight going. He pulls up beside Billy and watches Harrington walk away.

“Aww,” he says, mocking. “Did you two break up?”

Billy closes his eyes. Breathes deep. Before turning and putting the full weight of his body behind a cold-cocking punch to Tommy’s jaw. Hopes it breaks. Hopes they fuse it. Hopes he can’t fucking talk for a month, the yappy little bitch. Tommy hits the floor with a boneless THUD and Billy leaves him where he lands, stepping over. He skips the fucking noisy-ass lunchroom to sneak outside for a cigarette. 

Once it’s done he walks off, away from the school. Fuck the extra trouble it’ll cause him later. Right now he can’t go back in there. Right now, he just needs to be away. Needs to run. Outrun the thoughts.

The fifth he buys at the store that’s never once carded him helps. 

Cheap-ass whiskey goes down hard the first few drinks—and he doesn’t even wait, cracks the bottle right outside the door for those long glorious nasty pulls. After that, things get smoother. Smooth enough that he can screw the top back on and wait till he’s found somewhere to lay low and fucking drink the rest.

Drown it.

The bottle is three-quarters gone when he stumbles off without it, forgetting it; tired, so tired and just wanting his bed, wanting things to stop tilting off kilter with every step. Fucking drunk—he’s drunk. And Steve expects to meet him but fuck that. Fuck that. He’s…needs to stay the fuck away from Harrington and his cock is what he needs to do. Needs to lie down is what he needs to do. Fucking Stevie-boy, getting a chubby when he’s strangled. What the fuck is that, anyway?

What the fuck, right?

He makes it to his door. Makes it through the silent house, yes, fucking yes, no one home. Safe. It’s safe. In bed and nothing’s ever felt so good. Except there’s the spinning. He could fucking do without that. So he closes his eyes but it still spins, the world, or him, or….

The hand is soft on his shoulder, but it keeps shaking him, and he tells it to fuck off, but it won’t. Finally, he gives up, opens his eyes on a world still shifting unpredictably.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Steve says, somehow in Billy’s bedroom. Billy groans. How is Steve here now? How is that fair, when Billy had run away from him mostway down a fucking bottle? ‘S not, that’s how. 

“Hey, c’mon, let’s get you out of here, okay? Before anyone comes home.”

Billy’s even drunker than he’d… what was? Drunker than he’d been, y’know, before. He blinks hard, trying to focus.

“Soundsgood,” he says, slurs. Then he tries to get up and falls right back on his ass, laughing so hard afterwards he feels it in his gut because he can’t… he’s not gonna…. And his dad’s gonna kill him. He’s just, he’s dead, he’s…. 

“Little help?” he manages, between laughs.

And Steve’s arm wraps round him, hauling him up; Billy leans heavy into him, into Steve’s scent, nearly knocking the guy over because he can’t—goddamn it’s so funny—he can’t get his fucking legs to work right. God Steve smells good.

“You smell so _good_ ,” Billy tells him, reaching up and brushing clumsy fingers along a barely-there bruise—mmm soft skin—as Steve’s buckling his seat belt for him, leaned in all close and shit. Somehow, they’re in Steve’s car. When did that…? 

“You really fucking do,” he whispers, hand dropping. And then he’s fighting back tears because it’s so goddamn true, but it isn’t supposed to be. It’s…. And he’s glad when Steve doesn’t say anything at all.

And somewhere along the drive, but fuck if Billy knows where, he drifts back down into sleep.

And his dreams are sweet. They smell like Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker


	7. He's Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm cohabitating with an infant now, and Billy got scared out of my head by the aww-look-at-the-cute-little-baby hormones. Soooo this chapter was a gotdamn struggle let me tell you. Glad I found him again. Hit me up in the comments if you do like what I do for you. I may be a needy bitch for validation but at least I'm honest.

It’s not his couch.

He can’t be at home because this couch is way too comfortable for home. Too soft against his cheek. Not that he’s ever been able to fall asleep on the couch at home, out in the open in the enemy territory of his living room. He’s not that fucking stupid. So it’s not like he knows what waking up on his couch feels like after a nice comfy nap. It’s just pretty fucking obvious that this isn’t his living room. It’s huge. Even in the dark he can feel how huge it is, how high the ceiling hangs above. And it’s dark, and thank God, because his head feels like someone’s stuffed in there and trying to carve their way out with a chainsaw.

But he can worry about that later. Where the fuck is he?

He can’t claim memory loss; ain’t that lucky. There are a few moments from yesterday that he’d happily burn out of his head right now if he had the option. And damn, it feels like he’s been poisoned. He’s got to laugh at that, a dark chuckle that he immediately regrets—he has been poisoned. And the fact that he still remembers everything he’d said and done, everything he’d been trying to forget, kind of makes him want to grab up another bottle and poison himself all over again. Do it right this time.

Drown it all.

But he doesn’t need any more fucking problems. Doesn’t need to let his drunk-ass mouth dig him any deeper. _You smell so good_. Shit.

He cringes in the dark, wipes the expression from his face when it only makes the headache worse. What time is it, anyway? How long had he been out?

A sliver of light cuts clean through the dark and blows by his slow-ass pupillary reflex to burn his retina and he flinches away with a groan.

“Shit, sorry,” he hears from within the light. 

Slowly Billy’s eyes get to work adjusting. It’s Steve. Harrington. Coming out of a bathroom must be on a billow of shower steam, soft in baggy pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and toweling that fucking hair dry. _You smell so good_. No no no no. Got to be fucking kidding. Not here. The embarrassment comes on fast and thick and does very bad things to Billy’s already rocky stomach. So instead of telling Harrington to kill the fucking light, or to fuck off, or even just ignoring him and rolling into the back of the couch, Billy finds himself up and bolting for the bathroom Harrington had just exited, being very careful not to touch the guy as he blows past. He finds himself praying to the porcelain god until he’s dry heaving and his head pounds and he’s spitting out bile, weak in a way that’d be almost nice if it wasn’t so goddamn horrible. Nice and cathartic if Harrington wasn’t just standing there, watching.

Feeling Harrington’s eyes on him, wanting to hide and not quite yet coherent, he flushes the toilet and in the same motion heave-hoes himself over the side of the tub he’s sprawled beside, back flopping down on the damp tub bottom, shirt wicking up Harrington’s fucking left-over bath water and surrounded by the rich sudsy smell of him. He might just puke again. He marvels at the distance one day can drag you under, finds himself breathing too fast and not quite able to get himself to calm the fuck down. But at least Harrington isn’t staring at him anymore. Win.

“Umm— Okay you— What are you doing, man?” Steve says, still out in the hall by the sounds of it. Good. Stay out. Stay away.

Billy reaches up and flings the shower curtain violently closed. It hangs up halfway. Why the hell is he here? Did Harrington drive him to his goddamn mansion? Somehow haul him inside? Tuck him in nice and cozy on the goddamn couch? Jesus. Out of all the people Billy wouldn’t want seeing this shit— He stares at the ceiling and waits for his fucking head to start working. How to get out? How to disappear?

“Cool. So, you gonna stay in there all night?” Harrington says from the doorway.

Yup. Maybe he’ll drown himself.

Billy stays quiet, lets the silence speak for him. Runs a tongue along his teeth, repulsed by the rotten acid bite of his whole mouth. He can’t stay in here. Needs to get outta this tub and this bathroom and this fucking house ASAP.

“Want something for your head? Some aspirin or something?”

No. Get a fucking clue already, Pretty Boy.

“Right. Right, I’ll just… you can stay, if you want. I’ll just…”

And Harrington finally shuts up. Fucks off. Billy waits another minute or five to be damned sure the guy’s gone before hoisting himself out of the tub and onto shaky legs, before walking out of the bathroom.

“Want some popcorn?” Steve asks, sprawled on the couch, the blue of the TV playing over his face. “It’ll do wonders for that puke taste.”

“Oh what the fuck?” Billy’s stopped short and jumping. This fucking guy. “You lose something up my ass, or something, Harrington? That why you’re always on it, won’t leave me the hell alone?”

“That one of your wet dreams?” Steve asks, eyebrow raised, setting the popcorn bowl aside. “I mean, if that’s how you’re gonna be I guess I shouldnt’ve bothered. Just left you sloppy drunk for your parents to—”

“Parent.”

“Okay, right, whatever. Bet your dad would’ve really loved that. Real smart there killer.”

“Smart.” Billy TSKs Harrington. Gets him back for the TSKing he’d given Billy the other day. “That’s funny. You, telling me how to be smart.”

Billy walks on over to him, wanting to escalate, pissed and out of ideas and just working off his default script. But Harrington is up and walking forward too. Walking toward him. Stalking toward him. And he stops, can’t help himself, suddenly unsure and very aware of his shaky legs and pounding head and the vomit on his breath. Harrington stops, inches from him, slams something into his chest that rattles as it hits. And Harrington holds it there, fingers hot through Billy’s shirt. Billy turns his face away. What the fuck is Harrington up to?

“Okay, right, I’m a dumbass, fine. But I’m smart enough to know that not all these bruises,” and he presses his thumb hard into the biggest bruise on Billy’s face, the one cutting across Billy’s cheekbone, “come from the fights you’re always bragging about.” 

Harrington pulls his hand away, swiping the angry skin gently, maybe apologetically. 

“And when I found you like that earlier I knew he’d—I just didn’t want…. I just thought I should stop it happening or something, I dunno.” Then he picks up Billy’s hand and guides it to grab whatever he’d shoved into Billy’s chest.

“Do whatever the hell you want, Billy.” And he finally backs off. “Just take some fucking aspirin first.”

“That’s not—” Billy’s head is spinning. Harrington knows. He knows. Shit. How? And that defensiveness springs up strong. That need to protect his dad from people that don’t get it. Don’t fucking understand. Don’t realize that for all his bullshit Neil’s _his_ , his _dad_ , and he won’t see his dad in trouble for a few little bruises. A couple fights here and there. Not when half the time Billy starts those fights. No. He lets the aspirin Harrington’d pushed on him drop, hears it clatter to the floor.

“You’re all the way wrong, Amigo. My old man doesn’t do shit to me.” 

And Billy’s already pushed Harrington back so his calves catch on the couch and he tumbles into the cushions, easily pinned. Billy holds him down, forearm a bar across the top of his chest, sitting on his thighs. 

“You got that?”

“Nope.” Steve says, defiant, goading, chest heaving under Billy’s forearm. “Didn’t catch it. I’m a little slow remember.”

Billy pushes harder, slides further forward a bit for leverage and Harrington’s breaths come quicker and shallower under the new pressure. Billy raises his fist, feeling the rage build, feeling pushed so far he can’t stop himself laying into Harrington, not if he tries. The bastard’s dark eyes flick up to Billy’s looming fist and— and this needy little puff of a groan, all sex, comes out of him. And at that moment Billy realizes that he’s sitting in Harrington’s fucking lap, that he can feel the line of Harrington’s straining dick along the bottom of his thigh. 

Harrington’s eyes pop wide in startled embarrassment at the noise he’d made, at his state, at realizing that Billy’s realized. He’s staring shocked-still into Billy’s eyes, just waiting for something. Anything. And Billy’s fist doesn’t come crashing down on the guy like Billy wishes it would. It drops to his side, limp. Because Harrington wants—

“You _want_ —”

Billy backs off of him, slow, like Harrington’s a fucking field of landmines he’d somehow wandered into. And once he’s clear he bolts. Only thing he can think to do. He hears Harrington’s “wait” but ignores it. No. He’s gone. This is too much. Too fucking much. Harrington wanted Billy to do it. To hit him. To paint him up all pretty with bruises so he’ll feel Billy on him for days. No, that’s not his— He can’t, can’t possibly. But he wants Billy. Wants him. That much Billy can be pretty goddamn sure of; can still feel the hot bar of Harrington’s cock on his thigh. God.

And that makes Harrington too dangerous. No good at all. Billy has to stay away. He has to stop himself going back at least three times. He’s worked too hard here to just— He’s been better here. Getting better. And he’d promised he wouldn’t fuck up again.

Harrington. The fucking beautiful perfect screwed up fucking bastard. Billy grits his teeth, forces his nails into the flesh of his palm, wills Harrington out of his head.

He walks through the cold dark of this shit little town he's stuck in. Doesn’t even have the protection of his usual jacket against that chill, and his shirt is still wet and clinging heavy to his back. But the cold of the night feels alright, feels great actually. Feels welcome and clean. And somewhere along the line he stops thinking of Harrington’s cock and his dark-rimmed eyes in the blue TV light and that little want-you noise he’d made. A little further on and he stops thinking all together. And then he just stops existing for a while. He’s gone.

When he’s back again, back behind his eyes and filling out his extremities, he’s sitting on the edge of his familiar bed. In his own familiar room. And the knock on his door that had snapped him back inside himself comes again.

“Billy, I know you just got in, but breakfast is in 20 minutes, okay?”

Susan.

And he’s nodding his head, nodding and swallowing down a hard lump of fear. Well, he’d wanted to lose time, hadn’t he? To lose memories? He’d really asked for it with that, huh? Should’ve thought that one through a little bit better, eh, bucko? Should’ve been a little bit smarter.

He lets out a trembling breath, sucks a fresh one in. Breathe. Just fucking breathe you little bitch.

Five hours of his life, at least, gone. Abracadabra. Gone like it never was. Fucking missing time. Stolen time. He rolls out of bed and grabs up his clothes for a shower, whole body shaking now.

Barely out into the hall and Neil looms in close outta nowhere, presses him into the wall with his proximity alone, with his anger. Neil’s already glaring. Shit, what did he do now? He hadn’t done anything, right? He’d know if he had, right? Missing time missing time. Fuck.

“You got a postcard today.”

“What?” The war drum of a heartbeat in his ears makes him doubt what he’d just heard.

“Postmarked California,” Neil goes on, frowning.

“Okay,” he says, punch drunk and unable to process this newest twist. “And?”

“And you’re going to burn it, you impudent little shit. Right now. You’re not going to read it and you’re not going to respond to it.” Neil shoves the postcard into Billy’s chest and Billy boots the sense memory of Harrington’s hand on his chest from his head. Bad timing, man. Not now. Not fucking now. 

“Is that clear?” Neil asks.

“Yes,” he says, keeping his eyes off the card no matter how hard it pulls. “Yes Sir.” Best be careful. Best be very good.

“Good.” Neil says, placing a hand on Billy’s shoulder and guiding him down the hall to the kitchen. “Then let’s get on with it.”

And he doesn’t look at the goddamn card. Keeps his eyes trained dead ahead as he marches across the kitchen to the stove. Doesn’t peek once as the burner CLICK CLICK CLICKs before it catches with a FWUMP of flame. As the heat rises, the postcard burning away on the grate. Little furls of ash rise up into his field of vision and he looks away from these as well until the heat banks back down, the lifeline to his past, back to Cali, gone. Burned away the way he’d left it.

“Now clean it up,” Neil says, and a wet cloth hits Billy’s shoulder and clings there like some dredged up sea creature. “And apologize to Susan for the mess you’ve made in her kitchen.”

Billy nods, eyes forward. Not really even present anymore.

“Sorry, Susan,” he says, completely unable to find the will to buck back, though he knows that’s what Neil really wants. Wants a little fight before giving in, wants the illusion of breaking Billy down just a little more. Whipping him into shape. So Billy says sorry. And when he says it, it doesn’t even sound like he’s crying. Win.

He pries the wet cloth from his shoulder and gets to work. By the time he’s done, the few tears he hadn’t been able to stop fucking escaping are dry and Neil is gone. He doesn’t look at Susan or Max at all. Can’t. Escapes as quick as he can to the shower.

Wes. Why the fuck? A postcard? What’s that supposed to do?

Billy’s eyes close as he rinses his hair and there’s Wes with his so-much-fucking-smarter-than-you face again. Wes, shirtless and laughing and laying back into the padding of his expensive-ass couch, in his—no shitting you—pool house. The guy’s wearing nothing but a pair of neon-ridiculous swim trunks, and he waves Billy over with the hand that’s holding a lit joint. Ribbons of thick smoke furl out through the air around him.

“Come on,” he says, patting the cushion next to him and exhaling a musty-rich fountain, remnants of his last hit. “Be lazy with me.”

Billy sits, on edge, too affected by the weed he’d already smoked to play it cool. He should be used to it by now, after months of time around the guy. God, but this must be new. Fucking rich kids and their toxic weed. His body feels like an anchor, numb and sunk down miles below him. Way too fucking high to be talking. Not safe at all to open his mouth.

“I was with this girl once,” Wes says, tipping his head back so his neck goes long and pronounced and Billy can see it when he swallows. “And when she was sucking me off she’d slip a finger up my ass. Surprised the hell out of me the first time she did it.” 

Wes laughs. Tries to pass Billy the joint. He waves Wes off, shaking his head.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, after too long a pause, realizing Wes can’t hear his fucking head shaking no.

“Mmm, okay.” Wes takes another hit. “Anyway, the second time she did it, I knew it was coming. And she would hit this spot in there when she did it, massage it like, all the while sucking my dick, you know?” 

Wes palms himself over his trunks, absently. A few times more. And his voice is rougher when he talks again. 

“She said it was the same as like—you know when you work on a girl’s clit? And they just oh God oh God oh God for you?” His hand is working himself harder now, running slow and deliberate over the solid line of his dick. He tilts his head over to Billy, each breath audible, strained. “You know what I mean, right?”

“Yeah,” Billy whispers without meaning to, shifting uncomfortably, unable to conceal his trapped erection.

“You hard?” Wes asks, smiling and slipping his hand down under the elastic band of his trunks, repositioning his cock. “You can take care of it if you want. It’s all good.”

Then Wes watches, unmoving, as Billy unzips his jeans with a grateful breath; as he reaches, tentatively, into his boxers and grips himself.

“So this girl,” Wes continues, as if he isn’t eye-fucking Billy as he begins stroking himself, “she explains afterwards that guys have the same oh God button, only it’s up our ass. How’s that for equality?”

All attention in the room is focused on Billy’s hand as it moves on his dick. And it’s fucking moving. God, Wes’s eyes on him.

“Yeah,” Wes breaths. “There you go.” He takes another hit and leans toward Billy, lets the smoke fall out lazily with each word as he goes on, quieter now, the drop in volume pulling Billy in to catch every word like Wes is letting him in on the world’s deepest secret or something. 

“And when she did it,” Wes says, takes in a shaky breath, “It’s like, you know—you know the feeling right when you’re about to cum?”

Billy nods and Wes nods too, pulls up closer, says “here, let me” and wraps his hand around Billy’s dick. And Billy’s head completely fucking detaches. Or maybe it just drops back into the cushion. He’s floating. He’s gone. 

“It feels like that,” Wes says in his ear, sucking in one more hit before putting out the joint, tipping Billy’s head up with a firm hand in his hair and coming in close enough to kiss before exhaling a stream of lush smoke between Billy’s parted lips. He pulls it in, greedy for it. “It feels just like that, but for twenty minutes straight if you want.”

And Billy cums. He cums and then Wes is kissing him, taking the smoke back from Billy and blowing what’s left of it out as he pulls away.

“I’ll show you some time,” Wes sighs, falling back into the couch.

Billy smacks the shower handle over to full cold. Nice fucking time to think of that. Of all the fucking moments. Good one brain.

Standing under the freezing spray, Billy realizes he’s not shivering. He feels fine, the cold feels good, and this knowledge kills his erection much more effectively than the cold water, which hadn’t worked at all. He just stands there as long as he’s able, as long as he can get away with taking the time. 

Fuck the world and the horse it rode in on.

At school, no one is waiting when he gets outta the truck, barely registering Max's silent exit. No Tommy, no Carol. Burnt that bridge well enough, it would seem. 

But Tommy’s not in school at all. And Carol has girls fluttering around her all day being good sympathetic little vultures. And every time he sees her she’s either crying or hemmed in so tight he can only guess that she’s still there, the nucleus of the chattering cell, so it’s not like he can really tell if she’s glaring at him or not, if Tommy’s absence is down to him or something else. He ain't in trouble yet, but it feels a little like there's another shoe somewhere still up in the air.

It’s a freshman girl that clues him in finally, and he near has to trap her in a corner to get her to tell him anything. She stares at him the whole time like a goddamn rabbit in a trap. A rabbit that kind of hopes he might ask it to prom if only it can catch his attention.

“He’s missing,” she says, braces flashing at him. “Disappeared from his room last night. And there was blood. Carol’s real worried. Tommy’s parents called the police and everything.” 

Last night. Fuck. At the word missing, a memory resurfaces. One moment out of all his stolen time. And if it’s representative, all his memories from that night can go right ahead and just fucking stay missing. 

A clear picture. Tommy sobbing in fear, low light highlighting only the sheets of tears on his cheeks. Tommy staring up, not at Billy but past him, mouth opening wider and wider till its big enough to let out a scream like Billy’d never heard in his life. 

And once he’s heard it there’s no take-backs. His ears ring with that scream the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden


	8. Rubberband Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hell yeah, this bitch is on fire right now. Hit me up after with a comment, yeah?

Well shit.

Billy’s car is waiting for him in his driveway when he makes it back from school with the truck. He sees Neil’s stony face through the living room window and fumbles the ignition trying to turn the damn engine off. 

A touch on his arm has him pulling reflexively away, but he looks over to find big repentant eyes. She’d been pissed at him. Fine. Showed up five minutes late and got in all ballsy, just waiting for him to say somethin. He didn’t. Knew the power play she was trying to pull and just threw her back some of the same silence she’d been dishing out to him since the day he’d called Nancy out in front of all her nerdy little pals. The day she’d been ashamed to call him hers. Two can play the silent game. Choke on it, kid.

Now she’s worried she’d fucked him again making them late getting Neil’s truck back to him.

Not this time.

“I’ll tell him it was my fault,” she says, eyes on Neil. 

Both of them are sitting in the safety of the truck cab, stalling, watching the window, gauging how bad it’s gonna be this time.

“Don’t fucking bother.” 

He boots the truck’s door open, staring at the now empty window, loosening himself up as he walks up the drive, preparing himself to open the front door. Neil beats him to the punch. Not literally. Not yet. But the way his dad’s eyes flick on over to Billy’s prettied up ride make him think it’s gonna end up there. Today. And if not today, fucking later. Almost wants to get it over with now. Tick it off the agenda. 

God, Neil’s rage. Fucking inevitable as the tides. As the sunrise every morning. Their relationship has always been one giant fucking rubber band, forever stretching till it snaps back and can start stretching thin all over again. It stings. And their tension’s pretty fucking high at the moment, better believe it. And Billy’s just waiting.

“Your buddy’s work?” Neil says with a little throat clearing noise that speaks more than a thousand words about just what he thinks of that shit.

And there must be a lie Billy can tell. There must be something he can say to defer this suspicion. He ain’t even doing anything. All he’s been here, in this fucking town, is what Neil wants. What the fuck more do you want old man? What the fuck else can Billy possibly do to prove he’s trying?

The silence only deepens Neil’s frown, confirms whatever scenario he suspects. Fuck. And another soft brush on his arm has him about jumping again he’s wound up so tight. Max. He’d forgotten about Max. He looks down at her, but when he does his attention draws Neil’s.

“Why don’t you run on inside, Maxine.” Neil says, tone a whole new animal when talking to her. “I’m sure your mom wants to see you.” 

“I—” she starts, looking up at Billy, “I need to talk to Billy about something. It’s important.”

“Go inside Max,” Billy says, ignoring her slight shake of the head no. Fuck if he’s gonna hide behind a little girl. “Go,” he tells her. “Now.”

When she finally does as she’s told, she only makes it as far as the living room window, forehead screwed up in concern as she looks out on them. Till Susan scoops her away. Then it’s just him and Neil. The good old familiar dance. 

“Awful good buddy to put his own money into fixing your car,” Neil says.

“Only till I pay him back.” A bolt of inspiration. “I’m fixing a bunch of shi— stuff around his place. His parents are paying me for it.”

Billy looks Neil dead in the eyes.

“I’m not going back on my word.”

“Of course not,” Neil says. “I know you aren’t. You’re my son. Smart kid. That’s why I don’t have to remind you what will happen if you slip up here.” And he holds out his hand, gesturing for the keys to the truck. Catches them when Billy tosses them his way. 

“Making me late with this shit, Billy. I _do not_ appreciate that.”

Neil gets in the truck and Billy feels his whole body loosen, top to bottom. The engine starts. Neil’s gone. 

But he can’t make himself go inside. Face Susan and her useless pity. Face Max and her goddamn concerned eyes. You did this, Max. You did this. Fuck your concern now. What good is it now?

He fishes the key to his ride out of his pocket. Shuffles out of his jacket in a frenzy, flinging it roughly toward the house. Climbs on into his car, just closing his eyes at the sound of the engine revving up to life. Rolls the windows all the way down, turns the music all the way up, and lights himself a cigarette, taking a nice long hit.

Alright then.

He drives, making sweet sweet love to the curves of the road, just gunning it, heading out of town. Wishes it really was as easy as all that. Taking off. Being free. Sayonara suckers, he’s out.

Eventually, he turns around, heads on home. Because it isn’t that easy, okay? But he chooses when to head back. Waits till he feels like it. Till he’s good and fucking ready.

When he’s fucking good and fucking ready, he rolls on back into town. Time to make the call that he fucking needs to make. And even then, even prepared for it, he still crawls the car back 5 under the limit. Needs more time after all.

But all he does with it is dwell on the past.

“This is from a fight?”

Wes, looking over a tender bruise on Billy’s back as they both sprawl naked in the pool house’s big ol rich-boy bed.

“Another fight?”

Wes touching his cheek a week later.

“I don’t wanna go home.”

Billy absently touching a dark ring around his neck while he says it. Sitting in Wes’s car outside his own tiny house, not wanting to go inside. Touching the bruise then looking up, pulling his hand away like it’d been burnt. But Wes sees. And the guy doesn’t say a damn thing. His eyes flick forward and he just nods, just drives. Okay. Takes Billy away.

“We could just disappear together.”

Wes, trailing a finger over a map on his wall. Looking back earnestly. Billy swallowing, head swimming, drowning in the hard realities of it all, in the word except, so jealous of the hope on Wes’s face. Sure they could disappear. Sure. Except….

“What’s that?”

Max pointing at the letter Wes had slipped Billy between classes. And Billy smiling down at her as he puts it in the box with all the others, as he hides that box away again. Putting his finger up to his lips, winking at her and mussing her hair as he walks back out of his room. It’s a secret, kid.

“Get your goddamn clothes on.”

Billy’s jeans hitting him in the face before he can even separate himself from Wes. And Neil standing there looking calm as a volcano moments before eruption. And Billy knows to do like Neil says. Wishes Wes would just stop threatening Neil as his old man pulls him half-dressed around the main house to the truck. With every threat Wes spits Neil’s hand wrenches tighter on his arm. And it’s gonna be black by tomorrow. But he’s too fucking shocked to feel it yet.

“Billy, I’m so so so sorry I— I saved this for you. I hid it.”

Max is blubbering, standing at the door to Billy’s room holding one of the goddamn letters that earned him this beating. Worst in his life. He gets up, limps over, stares her down.

“Burn it,” he says. And he slams the door in her stupid fucking face. Never gonna see Wes again anyways. Fuck it all.

Now he’s here, in the middle of this stupid fucking town they’d skipped off to, parked in front of a stupid fucking payphone that he thinks he’s probably too scared to use. He’s standing there in front of it, change jittering in his hand and his eyes closed so tight lights are dancing in the dark behind his lids. But he can’t stall forever. In the end he pays the fucking phone company. He dials the fucking number. He hasn’t forgotten. Can’t forget.

“Hello?” Third ring and he’s got an answer, Wes’s voice in Billy’s ear. He sucks in a breath and has to forcibly convince it to come back out.

“Wes.” He all but whispers.

“Yeah, who’s this?” And in the background Billy hears a voice, hears Wes’s breathy laugh.

Fuck.

“Billy,” he says, and it comes out hard, cold. Fitting.

“Ummmm, oh yeah, right, shit, yeah Billy. I just wrote you. What’s up, Billy?” The other voice chimes in all “hi Billy” and is shushed half-heartedly with a giggle. Then there’s a jostling on the line and the other voice has the phone.

“Bye Billy,” that voice says. And mid-laughter the call cuts off.

Two sets of laughter, there at the end. He'd swear. Two. 

Hung up. Wes. Fucking hung up. 

Billy very carefully sets the receiver down and exits the booth. Walks an 8-block loop before he’ll let himself get back in the car. Before he trusts himself behind the wheel. He gets glances for his buttoned down shirt, but mostly because people out today are all wearing winter coats and hats. Must be cold. He wouldn't know.

In the end, 8 blocks isn’t near long enough.

He peals out as he guns it back out of town. Pushes the car to the limit out on back country roads. Maybe there’ll be a deer. Maybe there’ll be some early ice. A turn too sharp. A downed branch. Something. Fucking something. He screams over the steering wheel, whole body torqued with pain.

All this fucking time. All this fucking time trying so hard and for what? What?

He screams again, eyes tearing up so the road near disappears, and he finally slams on the brakes, screams himself to a stop somewhere near the side of road. The grass is yellow and dead all along the ditch.

Dead.

That’s when the real crying starts. Ugly and wet. And who fucking cares. No one to see out here. No one to judge him. But it feels like they’re all watching. Feels like they’re all laughing and he can’t fucking stop anyway.

God damn it.

But the tears slow eventually. In time they even stop. And as he stares wrung out and unseeing out the windshield, he thinks he hears a whisper.

And the longer he sits in the silence of the dead country road, the louder the whisper grows.

Billy

Billy

Billy

_Billy_

And as the whisper grows up to become a wet gurgling croak, Billy feels himself fading away. 

Fading away to nothing. Finally. 

He smiles. Then he disappears.

“Cutting curfew a little close, aren’t we?” Neil says, pausing a moment before letting Billy in. 

“Sorry, Sir,”

Then he’s gone again.

“—acting really weird, Billy. More than usual.”

“Sorry, Max.”

Gone.

But this time coming up to consciousness he hauls back a memory. A girl in the trunk. Terrified and gagged and looking up at him. He's hauling her up out of there so quick, so violently that her leg catches on the edge of the trunk and she’s bleeding, a thick line down her calf and wicking into her white sock. And now she cries through the gag. Sounds a little like an owl. Hoo hoo hoo through the gag as she cries, then pulling in a long gasp when she runs out of air, the gag vibrating comically with it, all FWAPWAPWAPWAP. And he lets her cry, doesn’t matter if she cries, as he drags her toward the warehouse. It’s waiting. It’s hungry.

“So you won’t even talk to me now? That how it is?”

“Sorry, Steve.”

A man in the trunk this time. Another woman. Old then young then middle aged. Every color this tiny town has to offer. The whole lot. One and all he brings them to the warehouse. He brings them there forever, for who knows how long; time slips by without him. But every time he comes back to himself it’s with more and more guilt. More and more of these memories. These fucking memories. And he can’t stop himself going out. Going dead. He tries and he tries and he tries to wrench back control, but he’s never quite strong enough. Never quite persistent enough. And the fear keeps building; the guilt along with it. So he fights harder. For longer. ’Cause he’s killing people. Fucking killing people. Fucking—

“No.”

“Okay, Billy,” Susan says. “We don’t have to eat chicken tonight.”

And Billy works his jaw. He’s clinging to the moment with everything he has. And he feels the pull back to nothing tighten, tighten, then snap. Like a fucking rubber band. And he has experience with that shit. With that kind of relationship. He’s here, in himself, until it can tighten back up on him. Build up enough strength to drag him back under.

“How ‘bout meatloaf,” he says. Then he pulls out his car keys. “I’ll be back before he’s home.”

He’s got to know. Got to go. He’s got to see.

The victims. It’s always the victims. The poor fuckers his hands have dragged out there to be eaten. But he can’t remember the thing that does the eating. Never brings that back.

And he has to get a look at it.

His car pulls up outside the warehouse, headlights casting the building in sharp relief from the surrounding night. Old. Abandoned. Perfect setting for a horror movie. God, how has this become his fucking life? Thinking better of it he backs in, leaves the door wide, leaves the keys in the ignition. Who the fuck is there to steal it out here? He won’t be long.

Unless he dies.

He crunches over the gravel to the entrance. Moves along the slick path through the dust on the floor inside. That dead ends at a door that looks harmless enough. It’s fucking not. It leads down to the basement. And the monster always lives in the basement, right? 

The door is so familiar. How many times has he turned this handle?

Swallowing, taking in a shaking breath, he swings the door wide.

BOOM, from the handle striking the wall. BOOM, a sound in kind, massive and echoing from inside. From down below.

SQUELCH CHITTER CHITTER

THUD THUD THUD THUD

And Billy watches as one long leg articulates forward into the light, huge and meaty and glistening.

THUD

How ‘bout meatloaf? How ‘bout meatloaf? How ‘bout some _fuckin meatloaf_?

He pukes, never taking his eyes off the godawful thing. Made of people. People. Wipes his mouth as it THUD THUD THUD’s further into the light. Closer. He stares it down as it nears, glaring.

“You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you motherfucker!” he screams, pointing, and it feels fucking fantastic to scream. He laughs like a loon, free now, fucking free for the moment and flipping it both birds as he screams at it again. “Yeah! How you like them apples?!”

But he doesn’t care what it thinks. Slams the door on its reply, his face falling blank with the realization of what he’d just done. Then he fucking runs like he’s never run before.

Runs for his goddamn life.

And from the sound of its shrieks rising up behind him as he squeals a wide gravel-kicking arc out onto the road and floors it, he’s done what he’s best at doing. He’s pissed it right the fuck off.

And as he drives down the dark road, those pissy shrieks fading, he grins.

Yeah. Fuck this gig. Fuck this all to hell. He quits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica


	9. Easy as That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I just want to assure you that lots of good things do happen in this very chapter. Wondrous things full of joy and all that shit.
> 
> Having said that, an extra warning is needed. There's also a graphic depiction of one of Billy's encounters with Neil in this chapter. I think it's the last, if that makes it any better. Also, in case you missed the addition to the tags, there's some racist bullshit going on. Three guesses who's behind it.
> 
> But as always and evermore, all comments will be loved and cherished and found forever homes. 
> 
> Don't make me beg. 
> 
> I'll do it.

Billy’s mouth is disgusting. Again.

He cleans it out as soon as he gets home. Not that he’ll be eating any of the goddamn meatloaf come dinnertime. Afterwards he doesn’t really know what to do with himself, loitering around the living room just staring at walls till Susan asks if he’s alright.

That’s the problem. He is. And he hasn’t been in so long that the sensation is goddamn strange.

“Yeah, I’m good. Got anything needs doing?” It comes out gruff, a little shy. He just needs something to keep his hands busy is all. Just needs to move. Don’t read too much into it. Too much adrenaline swimming around in him after all that earlier, is all. After he’d called out a monster the size of Harrington’s huge-ass fucking mansion. Got it nice and angry. Screamed here I am motherfucker and painted a nice big target.

Why the hell had he done that? He a fucking idiot or something? His breath comes faster, mouth gone dry.

Susan’s still stunned at the way he’d talked to her. Like a normal fucking human being and not some wounded animal, lashing out. Takes her a moment to get her bearings enough to speak.

“Sure. Sure I do. Could you set the table for me?”

Billy nods. Gets moving. Doesn’t stop helping till dinner is ready, going to Susan once he’d finished one thing only to be sent off on his next task. She looked like she wanted to feel his forehead for fever. Who the fuck knows how he’d acted when he’d been taken over, but she clearly isn’t used to this shit.

And it ain’t like he’s trying to be nice. He just maybe needs to stay busy. Maybe is afraid he might disappear the moment he’s alone again. So he really doesn’t need Max staring at him all gape-mouthed from the hallway for a solid five minutes while he’s vacuuming the living room. But he can’t make himself spook her off just then. ‘Cause it’ll make him that much closer to alone.

“Wanna quit staring and help?”

And she rolls her eyes. But her mouth finally closes. A small victory.

“Not really.” She slides a book off the shelf and opens it up to a marker, sliding herself into a chair directly in his way.

So he grabs up her legs and lifts them when he makes it over to her, vacuuming under.

“Creep!” she complains with a giggle that dies half-born. He cuts off the vacuum and looks down at her, staring up at him all hopeful and wary. 

And he’d fucking hated her. Over Wes. Over shit. Stupid kids stuff, like she’d said. Bunch of shit that wasn’t her fault. All his impotent anger for Neil that he’d trapped up over the hurt from the beatings and the humiliation they brought, from his violent separation from Wes, the one person who’d got a glimpse of who he really was; the empty-gut loneliness after that had been taken too. Max had just been the most convenient scapegoat. The easiest to hate.

He sees clearer now. Now he only hates himself for being such a sucker. Such a fucking whiner. Big goddamn baby throwing a tantrum. Grow up.

He’s got enough fucking problems.

“Brat,” he says, and pulls her legs up so far she near slides out of her seat. She squirms out of his grip and sits up, smiling and eyes a little too shiny.

He pretends not to notice.

“Loser,” she says.

“Midget,” he throws back.

“Asshole.” This she hisses so her mom won’t hear.

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, honest. “Pretty much. Workin on it though.”

She nods, the clear winner of the little game. 

“Apology accepted, Neanderthal. I know it’s as good as I’m gonna get.” 

She picks up her book, throws him a gesture to carry on. Easy as that.

God he’s fucking missed her. Mad little Max and her trash talk, her fucking sass.

It’s surreal. This whole night has been surreal.

“Billy, will you take the meatloaf out to the table? Your father will be here soon.”

And she’s right. Before Billy can even cringe at the thought of meatloaf again, Neil’s swinging on through the door and pulling a chill breeze with him in his wake. Billy, immune, only knows the cold comes when Max shivers beside him. Seems only yesterday he’d been real close pals with shivering too, with the cold, remembers waking up in a field near-dying of it. Never thought he’d miss the feeling after that.

“You won’t believe what I just heard from my supervisor at work,” Neil begins, peeling off his coat like he’s ready to fight someone, past ready. Dressing down to put a real hurt on someone.

And he looks right at Max.

“Real funny story,” he goes on, voice escalating. 

There’s a minor crash from the kitchen. Fear making Susan clumsy with some dish. Neil goes on.

“‘You know what I seen the other day,’ guy says to me. ‘No Charlie, what?’ I say.” 

And Neil begins rolling up his sleeves, slowly, meticulously. 

“‘Was downtown picking up a part for the old lawnmower and guess what I see?’ he says.” 

He rolls his sleeve one last time with a flourish. 

“‘What’s that?’ I ask.” 

And Neil steps forward. Glares down. 

“‘Your Maxine holding hands with that little black boy,’ he says. ‘One lives on Maple. Kissing on him too. Running around with a whole pack of boys looked like. And Larry Walther said she’s been runnin around with them for a while.’”

Neil’s hand flexes once, neck standing out in cords and face going red and veiny.

“He thought I ought to look into it. I told him I most definitely would.”

Susan emerges from the kitchen, stumbles to a stop, hands over her mouth, her face just melting into this horrified expression.

“Think you can run around wild like some little slut?! Go kissing some nigger boy?! No, missy. No. Not any child living in my house!” 

And Neil lunges forward. But Billy moves in to meet him. Fuck no. Not her. He doesn’t get to start in on her.

Neil grabs Billy by the upper arms and swings him around, lets go and launches him right into a wall with too much force to be slowed, stopped. Billy hits, the crack of his head so loud it’s a taste as it connects with the doorframe. 

And suddenly he’s trying to lift his head, push himself up to see, just scrape his face up off the ground from where he’d found it. Doesn’t even remember falling.

“Leave it, Billy.” Neil growls, turning back. “It’s time she’s learned some discipline. High time.”

Billy crawls over to snag Neil’s ankles before he can get his fucking hands on Max. Makes it in time. Trips Neil up a little, distracts him. Earns a series of swift THWACKing kicks to the ribs for his troubles. Sorry Max. Fucking sorry for being such a prick so long. Sorry. See?

“No!” He hears her scream. “Stop it, stop! Stop fucking kicking him!”

“That mouth is another issue,” Neil says, pointing at her as she sobs, not scared; furious.

“But this gets through to you, does it? Don’t like it when I do this?”

And Neil hauls Billy up, walks him over and slams him into the door to give Max a good clear view. Delivers one, two, three punches to Billy’s abdomen, just under the diaphragm. Billy cowers away. Can’t fucking hit back. Still can’t hit back. Can’t fucking breathe either. Breathe you little bitch. Come on.

He gasps in a breath and his ears stop ringing. Can hear Max’s angry sobs again.

“Well then, how bout this? How’s this for a deal?” Neil says, fist loose in Billy’s shirt, turned to look at Max. “I ever hear about you messing around with those boys again, and _he_ pays the price.” And he slaps Billy, hard, for emphasis.

“That sound fair to you, Billy? I won’t touch a hair on her precious head. But it’s your ass if she steps out of line.”

“Sounds like a peach of a deal, Sir,” Billy says, like a fucking idiot.

Neil throws him a quick jab to the nose. Doesn’t break it, thank god. Then he lets go to watch Billy slump on down to the floor. He points down at Billy, kicks his boot so he’ll pay real good attention. So he’ll focus on that finger in his face.

“You’re in no position to be smart with me.” Neil says. “Stifle that shit.”

He turns back to Max and Billy prays it’s over. Doesn’t know if he can get up yet.

“Be a good girl now, Max,” Neil says, the _or else_ strongly implied, and then he leaves, stalks off to his room to let Billy gather himself. Fucking decent of him.

Max walks across the room and melts down next to Billy. Susan hovers a safe distance away, clearly wanting to fuss over him but wary of being snapped at.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” Max repeats, trying to get her hiccoughing sobs under control.

“Yeah, well Jesus, Max. Told you not to get with the kid. Tried to scare him off too, remember? That night? Knew _exactly_ how that shit would end.”

“That’s not fair.” Max’s eyebrows come together, so serious.

So serious that Billy can’t help but laugh, rolling his head back with it. Licks the blood off his teeth before looking back to her, still amused.

“You fucking thought life was fair?”

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him,” Max says under her breath, fuming. “Why don’t you fight back? You’re strong. You could beat him. You should fight back.”

And Billy can’t answer. He knows he could win. Could beat Neil within an inch of his life if he ever tried. Knows he _can_. Any fucking idiot could see that. He just doesn’t. Too scared maybe to try. Been so fucking scared of Neil, scared for so long, that he’s like a baby elephant grown up to think the stake can hold him. Thought of hitting Neil makes his balls crawl up into his stomach and his skin clam up. But it’s not just the fear. There’s this love that’s all tangled in with it, this protective love. Neil’s his dad, in the end. His old man. And Billy just can’t take a swing at him. He can’t. Everything but that.

Susan leans in, wary, holding out a towel fat with ice and balancing a bowl in the other. She presses the ice into his hands.

“For your head. Please, Billy.”

And he takes it. Holds it gingerly to the back of his head, lets his throbbing skull pillow against it. Susan is wringing a washcloth that she’d pulled from the bowl.

“May I?”

Billy breaths a few times, fighting the instinct to tell her fuck no, to get up and lick his wounds in private. It’s creeping up. Getting stronger the closer these two move in, the sappier they get.

He nods.

The cloth is warm running over his mouth and chin, sweeping up the blood from his nose. He averts his eyes from her face, not able to look, so when she stops wiping, drops the cooling cloth to land on the hand resting in his lap and sweeps his hair back, kisses him gently on the forehead and pulls back repeating “thank you thank you thank you,” he has no warning.

He’s up, toppling the bowl and soaking himself, and he sways a little but manages to turn and open the door just fine, fucking ice pack slipping from his distracted grip. It’s too much. Too much. Needs to get away. Max is safe for now. He can leave for now.

There’s a reason he didn’t want to be alone, but it’s fuzzy now, seems stupid in the face of everything he has to get away from. He stumbles across the driveway, falls against the driver side door of his car.

Only to have Max reach into his pocket from behind and snake his keys.

“You’re not driving,” she says with the jingle of spinning keys.

He turns slowly.

“Sure as shit not staying here.” 

Max gets this look on her face and he knows he doesn’t have the energy to fight against the kind of stubborn she’s brewing. Feels weary just looking at her now.

“Your mom gonna cover for you?” he asks sternly.

Max nods and Billy believes her. Susan will want Max out of the house. He does too, come to think of it.

“Fine. You drive then. Fuck it. Probably end up wrapped around a tree either way.” 

And he won’t be alone if she comes. There’s that little plus too. That little talisman against the fear of disappearing again. She’ll be there to annoy him. Keep him in the moment.

“Didn’t crash it last time,” she says, wrenching the seat as far forward as it’ll go.

“Tch, I’m so comforted.”

He slumps slowly down into the passenger seat. Ribs aren’t stiff yet, but the way they protest when he sits lets him know they’ll definitely be there tomorrow.

But not broken. Not that bad.

“Shit it’s cold,” Max says then. “Gonna grab my coat. Don’t go anywhere,” she adds, and she spins the keys one more time, smiling cruelly.

And he just laughs, regrets that shit immediately because Christ does his head hurt. Yup. Right on back to the way things had been before Hawkins fucking Indiana. Before Wes and all that fucking drama. There’s his stupid little sister. There she is.

Missed you.

“So where you taking me?” He asks, once they take off and are a few miles down the road. Doesn’t really care. Just wants to kill the quiet between them.

“Someplace safe.”

He nods.

He knows he should’ve asked more questions when, after a while of seemingly aimless cruising, she pulls them up in front of Harrington’s house.

“Safe?” he asks, dubiously.

She just nods, killing the engine.

All the lights are burning, he sees, as they walk up to the door. As Max presses the bell. Harrington swings the door open eventually. And when he does he gawks at Billy for a second.

“Shit, Man,” he says. “Come in.”

“Fucking traitor,” Billy whispers to Max as they enter.

And she is. More than he knows. Because as soon as she closes the door, he’s charged from all sides. 

The pale kid right in front of him is holding what looks like a stun gun and standing in front of this dark-eyed girl that’s just looking on curiously. Lucas Sinclair, kid Max just got him beat over, stands to his left with a bandana tied around his forehead and he’s swingin one end of a coiled up rope around him like a nunchuck. A curly-haired kid in a baseball cap guards the right. This guy brandishes a roll of duct tape threateningly, partially unspooled and sticky-side out.

“Woah woah woah, you guys, slow your rolls,” Harrington calls, waving his arms for them to cut it out. “Seriously?”

Max steps forward.

“He’s himself right now. He’s ok.”

Everyone backs off a few steps, relaxes.

“He doesn’t look okay,” Lucas says. Billy snorts. Kid's got some balls on him.

“Blood,” the dark-eyed girl says, head tilting.

He swipes at his nose. Yup. Bleeding again.

“Alright, enough.” Harrington claps. “All short people get in the living room. Watch a movie or something.”

Max stays beside Billy. And something kind of loosens in his chest when she does it. Fucking kid.

“Just gonna show him where to get cleaned up,” Harrington tells Max softly. “It’s okay.”

Max looks up at Billy for confirmation. He nods and she nods back, easy as that. Then she’s off, and knowing her she’s about to veto whatever stupid movie the boys had picked and make them watch something decent.

Harrington gestures him along, and they enter a dark narrow hall he hadn’t ever been down. A light flashes on in a small half bath. Has him squinting.

Fucking ow.

“I keep all the bandages and shit in here.”

Harrington begins pulling stuff out of a drawer, plucking stuff out of the medicine cabinet above the sink.

“So you planned an ambush?” Billy asks, watching.

Steve tosses him a cool wet washcloth for his nose.

“Yeah me not so much. That was all the lollipop guild out there. Max was worried. Said you’d been acting weird. And with the disappearances, all the other strange shit going on, well….”

“They figured they better tie me up to be on the safe side?” Billy says. Then he drops the cloth, falls back to sit on the toilet cover and puts his face in his hands.

“Steve.” And Billy hadn’t meant to call him Steve, but it slipped on out anyway. Fuck it. First name basis it is. “All those people, they aren’t just fucking missing. I fucking killed all—”

He can’t finish the sentence out loud.

“It’s like I disappear,” he goes on. “Fucking got infested somehow. That cut you saw, that was it. It got in me somehow, something, some _thing_ and took over. And when it comes I go. Nothing. Fucking nothing. Missing time. Except when I come back there’s these fucking _memories_ , God, these little bits and pieces of all the things I do and I—

He can’t breathe. Keeps sucking in through a throat that feels like a coffee stirrer, pulling with lungs that feel like they shrunk a few sizes in the wash. He falls to the ground, curls up. God, he’s gonna die now. He’s gonna die. He’s gonna fucking die and he deserves it.

But hands grip his shoulders, pull him back against a chest that rises and falls like it’s nothing, easy, like all-day-motherfucker.

“Hey. Hey, it’ll be okay,” Steve whispers into his ear. “Just keep breathing and we’ll fix it. We’ll fix it. It’s alright.”

And fuck if Billy doesn’t believe him. He lays his head back on Steve’s shoulder, takes in each breath with the rhythm of the chest behind him, waves of breath just pulling up and sweeping out. And pretty soon he’s able to put a lid on the panic. Able to breathe freely.

After a while, Steve motions Billy to lean forward. 

“Gonna see how bad it is.” 

He moves out from behind and pulls Billy’s shirt up.

Lifting his arm isn’t Billy’s favorite thing to do right now. He hisses. Yup. Fucking ribs are definitely starting to cramp up.

But all in all he’s had way worse. This shit is nothin.

Billy expects Steve to want him to talk about it. Tell him what happened. But Steve only gestures him to stay, to lean back on the wall. Then he cleans the cut Neil’s shoe had toed open in Billy’s side. Puts some kind of gunk on it and seals it off with a bandage.

“You’ve probably got a concussion,” Steve says. “I’ve been learning some first aid. Your pupils are all fucked, so that’s supposed to mean concussion. You don’t feel like you’re gonna pass out, do you?”

Billy shakes his head. Pretty far from it.

“Gonna have a big goddamn egg back here too.” He gives this little snort. “At least it’s not bleeding.”

“Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, swiveling around to look him in the eye.

Billy pulls Steve in. His hand cups Steve’s head and his mouth moves in. Finds lips. Soft. Just sits there, waiting. Please please please.

Steve moves, kisses back slow, sweet, just like Billy imagined he fucking would. And normally he’d hate it. But right now he fucking needs it.

When Billy pulls away, he keeps his eyes closed. Licks his lips. God, the fucker _tastes_ good too. Runs his thumb through that fucking hair, brushing along Steve’s temple.

“Had to shut you up,” Billy says. “Yapping was hurting my goddamn head.”

And Steve laughs. And it’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna fix this.

When they walk into the living room, Steve lets out an exasperated breath of laughter.

“The Thing? Really?”

“The effects are special,” The dark-eyed girl says, barely glancing away. 

Something off with that one. Definitely.

Billy’s eye is drawn to the screen as well, to the sight of the head drooling down off the operating table and sprouting gruesome limbs.

THUNK

Billy looks out the sliding doors, sure the noise came from that way. Nothing. Pool glow lighting a quiet night.

THUNK THUNK THUNK

Everyone turns. And Billy sees them now. Rats.

More hit the door. Ten, twenty. More and more. And as they press themselves against the glass they begin to shudder, spasm.

Explode.

But the wriggling mass that remains of each rat keeps moving. Comes together. Joins. And it shifts, changing like some fucking monster off the screen. Hundreds of rat-blobs now. More coming each moment till the writhing glob is the size of a large dog, a deer. It keeps growing. Changing.

“Shit, oh shit,” says the kid in the hat.

“Why are they here?” The pale kid says. “The rats haven’t done anything so far. They've just been eating chemicals.”

“Shit, yeah I think I can answer that,” Billy says, unable to look away from the thing slowly taking form outside the doors, “Might have just royally fucking pissed off their mom.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Max says.

The dark-eyed girl steps forward, face serious. Squares her shoulders on the door. On the thing. Like she means business.

Chyeah, okay. So fucking weird. 

“Call Hopper,” Steve tells the pale kid. “Tell him to bring guns. Lots and lots of guns. Bombs if he has them. Tell him to hurry.”

Then he runs over to a closet, pulls out a nail-studded bat. Looks familiar for some reason. He twirls it as if reacquainting himself with the weight. Looks confident now. Alive. Well hello. Nice to fucking meet you buddy. He grins at Billy, all aren’t-I-fucking-impressive?

He is, too.

Steve points the bat at the thing outside.

“Guess we’re just gonna have to keep this thing busy till some backup gets here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork


	10. Zero Complaints Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are again. Monsters and mayhem and two beautiful messy boys. Drop a comment and let me know what you think!

They’re fucking dead.

The rats stop coming. God knows why, but they stop. And the thing stops growing. Its massive lumpy body rises up on too many mismatched legs and it roars, fogging the doors.

Bloody spittle flecks the flimsy glass as the unnatural sound goes on and on. The moment it stops, the thing smashes right on through the glass like it’s nothing. Like it’s not even there. The door explodes inward, glass shards flying. And it hops inside the house, graceful and strange, its Frankenstein anatomy still shifting unsettlingly.

The dark-eyed little girl raises her arm, palm out toward the creature.

“Hide,” she says, not looking back. 

Like hell.

Billy whips his head around, looking for a weapon. This is his fight. He’s the one that’s brought the thing here. He’ll damn well finish what he started. What’s the worst that’ll happen? He dies trying? He’d rather that then continue on as some monster’s bitch. As some pet trained to fetch. To kill.

Yeah, he’s done with all that.

But there aren’t exactly any convenient weapons around, not in this empty-ass house. And it’s too late for all that anyway. A cry of exertion from the little girl precedes a fucking monumental CRASH and Billy jumps, focus drawn to the caved-in wall across the room and the monster slowly rising from the ruin, shaking off the hit, chunks of wall flying from its oozing skin with the force of its movement.

What the fuck? Did she just do that? Fling that thing clear across the room? Seriously, what the fuck? How?

“Hide!”

This time she turns to the pale kid, bleeding from the nose and pushing him into action with a shove to the chest.

“No way!” the kid yells, grabbing her arm to stop her shoving. “I’m not hiding while you fight this thing alone!”

“Mike—”

She’s interrupted by a roar. The thing is charging. Billy barely dodges a swipe from one of its spindled legs as it barrels past. He’s falling back dizzily and rolling up to his knees. It could have killed him easy. Isn’t even trying.

He stares down the line of its charge. The thing’s found something more interesting to focus on is what’s happening. That girl and her power.

“El!” he hears, and the dark-eyed girl is slammed into the wall behind her by the monster’s weight. She slumps down afterward slowly, bonelessly.

Shit.

Steve distracts the thing from going in for the kill, digging the nails of his bat into its back and hind-legs, bringing up not blood but some viscous pink slime that oozes down its sticky flanks. It roars, pivoting too quick, near bending in half as its scatter of legs scuttle around, turn it to meet the new threat.

“Grab her!” Steve yells, wide desperate eyes finding Billy’s.

And Steve runs, the thing snapping at him as it lumbers along after. Gaining speed. Catching up.

Billy totters over to the wall, scoops the girl up, looks around at the others.

“Well come the fuck on!”

Somewhere safe. Somewhere safe. Gotta get them somewhere safe and get back out here to—

A distant pained yell freezes him. He shoves the girl at the closest kid, Lucas. Shoves her again, more insistent when the kid just stands there and doesn’t fucking move to grab her dead weight.

“Hey! Take her and go hide!”

He spins to lock gazes with Max while Lucas gets his arms working. The pale kid, Mike, comes in to help him support the girl.

“Fucking keep hidden,” he tells her. Orders her. She nods and he nods along with, just gathering himself for a second. Jesus this is so fucked. “Okay, good. Good. Go.”

They go, do as he fucking says, shambling along in an awkward tangle, all trying to help the girl, El, at once. Billy stops long enough in the kitchen to SNICK the biggest knife out of a block on the counter, then he’s heading toward the yell he’d heard. Toward Steve.

Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be fucking dead.

A door has been flung open half off its fucking hinges down the dark hall he’s running down, the frame cracked where something too big to pass just went ahead and fit through anyway, losing bits of itself in the struggle. The doorway is grimed in slippery wound-skin and pink ooze like strawberry jam.

Billy puts a reluctant foot on the first step down to the basement. Of course it had to be the motherfucking basement Steve ran toward, got himself trapped in. Typical.

A fresh cry has him scrambling down the stairs three at a time, still dizzy and maybe falling down the last third of the staircase. So what? He rolls, totters to his feet. He’s fine.

When he reaches the source of the cry, he finds Steve pinned in a corner, the thing pressed up close and menacing.

“Hey fuckface!” Billy calls, throwing the knife and managing to smack the thing in what might be a shoulder blade with the knife’s heavy handle. Shit. The fuck’d he do that for? Stupid stupid stupid.

He moves forward, grabbing up whatever is handy and lobbing the random crap at the thing until it fucking pays attention. Focuses on him. Better him than Steve. He started this. He’s a murderer. Worthless. Steve is innocent. A good fucking person who gives a shit and takes care of people and this fucked fucking goo monster does _not_ get to eat him today. No fucking way.

One last vase crashing over its beady fucking mug as it turns its attention on Billy is all it takes to get the thing roaring mad, running at the source of its annoyance. At Billy. And Billy’s running too now. Better fucking believe it. Stumbling more than running, still off balance, just booking it as best he can through Steve Harrington’s big-ass basement, all the while trying to think up some kind of genius plan to keep himself alive.

So far no luck. 

He rushes around a corner, sees a door and slams it open as he runs through, making for another door at the far wall of the small room.

Don’t be a dead end. Let there be another door. Fucking please.

It’s a laundry. Small and enclosed and he’s fucked. The cold concrete blocks of the outer basement wall meet his fists as he reaches it, pounding into it once. Then he turns. Wants to see death coming. Wants to spit in it’s fucking face before he goes.

But the monster doesn’t come bursting in the room like Billy figured it would. It’s stopped. Right there, not ten feet away, its bulky frame is looming, unmoving in the middle of the small room Billy’d just run through. And as he keeps watching, not peeling his eyes off it for a goddamn second, Billy sees that it’s twitching, legs failing beneath, crumpling, then scrabbling for purchase only to fail again. It tosses its head as if to rid itself of flies while its whole body shudders eerily all over. Tipping back its head, hindquarters failing, it lets out another chilling roar.

It’s in pain. Seems like something’s hurting it. It jerks and twitches, coiling up to move, to run or attack, but unable to coordinate its muscles. Finally, with a thick SPLAT it pops, boils itself down into an amorphous blob of spare cells that quiver in their puddle on the concrete floor.

Billy tries scrambling further backwards, away, pressing into the unforgiving wall. The blob crawls toward him. He can’t move, can’t take his fucking eyes off the thing, forgets to breathe as it creeps forward. Forward.

Until it finds the drain in the laundry room floor not two feet from Billy’s right boot and halts, its disgusting mass disappearing glopily down the dark hole till nothing remains of it but a slimy pink film across the floor and a few stray bone shards left rocking on the drain grate.

When it’s well and truly gone, Billy’s breath comes back. Makes up for lost time, coming too fast and shallow to do him any good.

Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit that just happened.

It takes him a moment to get movement back in his limbs. When he remembers Steve, his muscles unstick right-quick, have him bolting back over to the other side of the basement.

Steve hasn’t moved from the corner Billy’d left him in, except to slide down to sitting. He’s pale, smiles up shakily when he sees Billy, runs a trembling hand through his hair.

“Thought I was dead,” he says, voice shaking as bad as the rest of him.

Billy walks over to him, holds a hand out and waits for Steve to take it; hauls the guy up. Steve leans back into the wall once he’s standing.

“Yeah, well,” Billy says, “that’s what happens to stupid goddamn heroes. They die.”

“You’re still alive,” Steve says, eyes already looking Billy over for new bruises.

“You calling me a hero, Harrington?” Billy can’t keep the bewildered amusement outta his voice.

Steve laughs. Some of the shakiness bleeds off in the action. Then his eyes meet Billy’s. His smile trails off into something else. Fucking soft.

“Shit, maybe.” He leaves off the implied what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it.

And Billy’s exhaled breath picks up a little of the shakiness that Steve had just got rid of. He breaks eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck as he turns toward the stairs.

“Should go find the midgets,” Billy says, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, probably.” 

Billy glances back to see Steve push off the wall and wince, fall back. Then he sees the blood. Too much of it soaking Steve’s shirt at his side.

He marches back over, moves Steve’s arm from its feeble attempt to cover the wound. Throws the guy a look like you-fucking-kidding-me-right-now? The shirt is wet, red, heavy. It slicks up Steve’s side sickeningly when Billy raises it to take a look.

And lets out a relieved breath. It’s not as bad as Billy’d feared. Not too deep. Just a messy fucking bleeder.

“Great,” he says, wrapping his arm around Steve to steady him. “Guess it’s my turn to play doctor, huh?”

It gets a chuckle outta Steve, still pale and leaning heavily into Billy’s side as they make their way upstairs.

Billy finds a load of gauze pads and shoves them up under Steve’s shirt for him to hold while they round up the kids, both of them taking turns steadying the other as they go. The dark-eyed girl is in better shape than them by the time the kids are found, the calm center of the wide-eyed cluster that emerges from the pantry. 

He checks the bleeding again before they go over everything with Hopper, who runs in through the busted sliding door ten minutes after they find the kids, then helps Billy cover it before he leaves to take them home, Max agreeing to stay with El even though the two look tense at the idea. Hopper doesn’t ask many questions, even helps Billy seal off the fucking basement drain, if only for some piece of mind. They need to talk plans, of course. They all know it. And Billy needs to play a whole lot of fucking catch up. But tomorrow. All that’s gonna wait till tomorrow. For today, he’s done with monsters.

He’s got stitches to put in.

Steve hisses and kicks out lightly from where he sits on the sink counter in the same fucking bathroom he’d patched Billy up in earlier. Billy shoves the whiskey bottle at him again.

“You need more. Haven’t even started yet.”

This earns Billy a glare, but Steve drinks deep, cringing and shuddering afterward, barely keeping the liquor down.

“God that’s fucking disgusting.”

Billy gestures for him to drink again and Steve doesn’t bitch about it, so odds are the liquor is starting to work. A few minutes later, Steve takes another long pull, pulls another grimace. Sets the bottle down too hard.

“Yup,” he says definitively. “Definitely drunk now.”

Billy pulls the needle though and smirks. Yeah, he’d say Steve’s probably right about that.

All is quiet while Billy works, save the occasional “ow, goddamn” from Steve. Billy’s on the last stitch when he feels Steve’s fingers work their way into his curls, start running through his hair. They end up getting stuck. Steve tugs a couple times, then breaks out in giggles. Billy untangles Steve’s fingers from his head, bats the hand away and concentrates on tying the last knot. Which proves harder than it should be because Steve’s finger comes looming in to ghost over the bridge of Billy’s nose, barely touching the tender skin as it swoops down. This time the hand moves away on its own and Billy can finish.

When Billy looks up, the guy’s looking down and their eyes meet. Steve’s studying him, face dark.

“You leaving then?” Steve asks, voice flat. “No more monsters, all sewn up, time to run off now, right?”

Billy swallows. He can’t go home. Meant to ask if he could stay. Fucking couldn’t bring himself to yet. He doesn’t want to go out there alone. Spend the night out wandering in the cold feeling sorry for himself till he up and disappears again. Have everyone fighting him too next. He just doesn’t know how to fucking ask for help without hating himself for needing it.

“I could sta—”

“No,” Steve says, shoving at Billy’s shoulder and knocking him a little off balance. Billy stands to right himself. “No no no no no, don’t you do that, not you. Don’t stick around out of some bullshit sense of pity. You got somewhere more important to be you just fuck off and get there.”

“I don’t fucking have anywhere else to be.” 

Billy almost says go instead of be. _I don’t have anywhere else to go._ Almost lets it slip. And he backs off a few paces, just this side of angry now. Thrown off. What the fuck just happened? What’s happening?

Steve hops off the counter sloppily and stalks toward him. The threat behind the motion pushes Billy across the line toward angry. Way across. What the fuck is this guy’s problem?

“Oh really? Not gonna run home this time? Afraid what your psycho dad might do to you? That it?”

And Steve does it again. For the third time. Two fingers jab out and push against Billy’s chest. Push Billy back, and Steve presses forward, keeps him backing up.

Billy’s this close to forgetting about the stitches he just put in and doesn’t want Steve to rip out. His craving for a fight is buzzing up along his spine, running down his arm and settling heavy in his hand, curling it into a fist.

“What the fuck, Harrington? I don’t want to do this.” Fucking lie. He’s salivating for it now that it’s laid out here so pretty before him. “Just stop, alright?”

But he stops backing up. Holds his ground.

“You want me to stop? Why don’t you fucking make me?” And Steve tilts his chin up, real cocky.

And alright. Alright, maybe he just fucking will.

Quick as anything Steve swings in with a haymaker; fucking stupid choice, he telegraphs the hell out of it and it’s not exactly the most subtle attack to begin with. Billy gets inside it and sends Steve windmilling back with a headbutt. The guy catches himself hard on the sink and immediately launches off, comes in again, this time for a tackle. Billy dodges to the left last second, swings around and pushes Steve into the tile wall, using his own momentum against him. Then he goes in, moves in close, honestly not knowing what he’s gonna do to Steve next, but Harrington spins and strikes, landing a quick solid hit just under Billy’s eye socket, and Billy punches back on pure reflex. Hard. Winces when Steve’s head bounces back off his fist and then forward off the tile wall. The sight of it, something in the cracking noise Steve’s skull makes on the tile, snaps him out of his red fury.

“Hey, stop. Stop!” Billy says.

He’s on Steve again, this time with arms wrapped around him, crushing him to the wall as Steve struggles, tries to escape, to attack.

“I’m sorry. Hey. Sorry,” Billy repeats into Steve’s ear, trying to calm him. “I’m staying, okay. Hell, I’m here. Just stop. You don’t gotta do this shit. I’m staying.”

And Billy didn’t notice the tears before, but he sure as shit feels them now, soaking his shoulder. Steve stills, sags into Billy.

“Got me good.” Steve laughs weakly, and Billy feels him reach up awkwardly to touch his face where he’d been punched. “You know, when they’re there, when I can feel them healing,” he whispers, “sometimes it’s like… like someone’s actually here with me. Connected or something. Like I’m not so fucking all by myself, you know? I dunno.”

“Healing? The fuck—?”

But suddenly Billy knows exactly “the fuck.” Remembers Steve’s fingers brushing the bruise he wore after their first fight like some fucking luck medallion, checking it was still there. Remembers his face after Billy’d fucking strangled him, the fingers creeping up to the mark on his neck. Remembers Steve just sitting there under his raised fist, skin nearly healed, just waiting for Billy to bruise it up again. Wanting. Wanting something to remember him by when Steve was sitting here in this fucking big empty house all alone, wondering if there were monsters outside waiting to kill him in his sleep.

“Oh.” It’s all that will come out of his shocked mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Oh.” Then he sighs, falls heavier into Billy. “Really really drunk, Man. Don’t fucking listen to me.”

And Billy turns with him, leans him against the sink counter. Fills a nearby glass with water from the tap and puts it into Steve’s hand. Steve looks at it suspiciously.

“Water. It’s fine. Just fucking humor me and drink it while I check your stitches. Can’t fucking believe I let that shit happen—probably all ripped out.”

Billy hears Steve drinking obediently while he pops the top on the bandage and runs the line of stitches by sight, looking for fresh bleeding. Fucking lucky. He smooths the bandage back down and looks up at Steve once more. 

Steve watches him, more peaceful this time. His hand comes up slow and his thumb brushes over Billy’s cheekbone. The skin is sensitive under the touch.

“Got you too,” Steve whispers. He strokes over the spot again. “You really staying?”

“Course I fucking am.”

Billy stands and Steve’s hand falls away as he rises. He raises his own hand, runs his own thumb over the beginnings of a really nice bruise starting to form on Steve’s cheek. Steve’s eyes flutter closed and he leans into the touch.

Goddamn perfect fucked up sonovabitch.

Billy leans in, doesn’t really think just moves in on instinct, lays a kiss down on the baby bruise budding there on Steve’s otherwise flawless cheek. Kiss it better? Make it grow? Seal in the goddamn color? Who fucking knows? Steve puffs out a contented breath as he does it though and he can’t fucking complain at all about that.

Zero complaints here, Compadre.

When they finally get up to Steve’s room Billy stands there a solid minute after he’s got Steve settled, just fighting the urge to run like a goddamn coward. It’s what he’s supposed to do. What he’s trained himself to do. Can’t be getting this close to people. Can’t just crawl into bed and fucking cuddle. Can’t let this go too far.

But he can. Fuck Neil and his threats, Billy can do whatever the fuck he wants. And he wants this. Wants it so bad he’s got a lump in his throat just thinking about it. He gets into bed on the far side to Steve, kicking the covers away in the already too hot room. Turns on his side so he can watch Steve’s face but can’t quite make himself get closer. The guy’s out cold. Breaths coming and going slow and regular. Face even more innocent in sleep.

Sometime in the night, Billy forgets to be afraid of closing his eyes. Of losing himself to unconsciousness. Of disappearing.

And when he wakes up, he’s still himself. Nice surprise. He’s too hot, Steve’s arm is thrown protectively over him and his eye is burning where Steve had popped him last night. But everything’s still kind of fucking perfect.

In the mellow light of morning, Billy allows himself to smile. He closes his eyes and just lays there in the moment.

Wishes it could last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin


	11. All Kinds of Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neil's still a douche, be warned. Otherwise fucking enjoy yourselves. Catch me in the comments after for tea and cookies and shit.

Billy sits on the edge of the bed. Steve is still asleep behind him, his mouth hanging wide.

The phone is blue. It’s sitting there, fucking silent on the bedside table. Billy’s been staring it down for the past half hour.

Finally, he can’t look at the thing anymore. Gets up silently and leaves the room.

Only to be faced with another fucking phone when he walks into the kitchen. Black, slick and new same as everything else in this house, just sitting there on the fucking island counter next to a white wicker nest full of fake red apples like some bird decided to take up modern art. 

Fucking rich people.

He shakes his head, flips through a few cupbords filled too full with untouched bowls and glassware, too fancy for everyday. Then he finds one filled with sugary cereal and snacks. He smiles. Guess someone lives here after all. 

The air is dry, smells like bleach. Hurts his nose. The house echoes around him.

He turns back to the phone. Closes his eyes in annoyance. Fuck it. Walks over and picks up the receiver. Dials the number. _The_ number. Grabs up the phone base and slides down between the stove and the island because it fucking feels safer to be curled up there in that tight space, alright?

RING

RING

RING

RING

“Hello?” It comes out garbled and cracked, barely recognizable. Sound of a throat clearing. “Yeah, hello?” comes the yawn. “This better be really _really_ necessary.”

“Yeah.” Billy’s voice is on a tether, but it’s a slippery bitch of a tether. The venom is clearly there, just under the surface. “I’d say it’s fucking necessary.”

“Who is this?”

Billy laughs once, mean, deadly.

“We could just disappear. Run away where my dad can’t beat me, where your folks can’t hound you to get a real job and move out of their house. Just disappear. How ‘bout it?” The venom comes out now, beading at the tip of his sharp fury. “Ringing any fucking bells? Or is that not specific enough; that line get rehashed on everyone you get with?”

“Billy?”

“Got it in one, Wes. Good for you.”

“Shit,” Wes says, tripped up. And Billy smiles a hard line. Shit is right. “Billy, look, I’m sorry about last—”

“Shut up.” It forces its way out through clenched teeth. Billy’s hand tightens on the receiver and he can hear the plastic creaking. “You wrote me. You wrote me, Asshole.” He takes a breath, blows some of the tension out. “Now I wanna know why. Why write me just to hang up in my fucking— I’ve been turning it over and over and I just can’t wrap my head around it. Doesn’t add up. Was it— Is this you getting me back?”

“For the fight?” Wes cuts in.

Fight isn’t exactly the term Billy’d use for their last face-to-face encounter. A flash of Wes’s shocked eyes in the glare of headlights hits him. Hard. Sees the guy falling just that hard on his ass in the wet, plush grass of his front lawn, his hand flying up over his washed out face to catch the splatter of blood from his nose too late to save his fucking expensive shirt; great purple flowers blooming down its front as blue drinks in red. 

“It’s over!” Billy yells in memory. “It’s fucking done! Deal with it!” He stares down at Wes in the shocked quiet after his roaring words. Becomes mesmerized by a single drop of moisture, a tear kicking off a diamond sparkle as it beads on Wes’s lower lash. Just quivering there. Poised. A perfect thing in all the chaos. Billy sits suspended in that infinite moment of betrayal. Beautiful and horrible and final. Just aching with it. Then he shakes it off.

Listens to Wes’s answer. 

“It was a broken nose, Billy.” Wes says levelly. “I got over it. I understood. You were leaving; pissed.”

“Fucking no! That’s not— Listen, I just had to make it clear. He—”

“What? That fucking asshole made you—”

Billy cuts off Wes’s cutoff.

“Why did you write me, then?” It comes out rushed, desperate. Fuck. Let it go, Wes. Let it go. Billy’s eyes close, his jaw tightens. Can’t take back the words now.

Silence on the other end. Too long. Too fucking long.

“I don’t understand.” Wes sounds confused. A step behind. “You wrote me. I was just writing back.”

What? 

Billy’s shocked into silence for a few fat seconds. Then his eyes narrow. Come the fuck on. He lets the bastard child of a scoff and a laugh slip from his lips on a dry current of air.

“No I fucking didn’t.”

“Oh really?”

Muffled sound of frenzied rummaging starts up on the other end and Billy waits it out. A minute later and Wes’s breath comes back on the line.

“Wes,” the guy begins, clearly reading. “Things are bad here. Need to hear from you. Write me. Billy.” Wes goes quiet, just letting the words sink in for a moment, the theatrical fuck. “Think about it. How else would I have gotten your address?” he asks. “Billy, goddammit, what’s going on?”

“When you wrote back— What—exactly—did you say when you wrote?” His voice doesn’t even sound like it belongs to him. He feels gut punched. Winded and a little like he might puke.

“What, you didn’t— Did that bastard—?”

Billy gives him nothin. Sonovabitch better fucking answer.

“Jesus, Billy. Fine. Fine.” He sighs. “I’m not proud of what I wrote, okay,” Wes says. “But I remember the words.”

“Billy,” he starts, this time clearly from memory. Clearly uncomfortable. “I care about you, but I can barely take care of myself.” He clears his throat to fill an awkward pause, then plows on. “Your situation is just too heavy. I don’t know if I can help. How can I? Wes.”

Billy’s nodding as Wes finishes. Like fucking-of-course.

“How can you help?” And his voice has its power back. It’s cold. Deadly.

He thinks of Neil. Thinks on the threat. Neil’s final-and-all-powerful weapon, his ultimate leverage over Billy.

“You can just disappear.”

And he’s wrenched back to the night after he’d been caught and dragged home. Neil’s standing over him. Throwing a rag down so Billy can mop up the blood from his busted lip. Billy tries to get up, but his knee got jacked in the fight. Can’t make it bend right. He rolls on his side and pulls the rag close with an aching arm. Grabs it up and slides it through the small puddle seeping into the wood of the living room floor. Staining it the color of his insides.

The house is quiet in the aftermath, just Billy’s pained breathing and Neil’s disappointment. Susan and Max got sent out to a movie before all the action started, because of fucking course they did. His pop just loves to shelter them. And it’s fucking hilarious, really. Pointless. Max’s desperate eyes as she left told Billy she knew exactly what was gonna happen. Told Billy she knew whose fault it was, too. Fucking good. He hopes the guilt rots her goddamn stomach out.

“Now,” Neil says. “I think you’re finally getting the idea. Appreciating the consequences of your actions.” He tucks an errant bit of his shirt back in, pulled loose in all the excitement. “You’re beginning to see. But I don’t think I’ve quite imparted—” And Neil slides his belt back through the loops of his worn jeans. There’s blood on the buckle from Billy’s back and Neil pauses a moment when he sees. Picks up Billy’s shirt from where it lies crumpled and polishes the metal before fastening it neat. “—a clear enough understanding of my embarrassment. My disgust. Of the upheaval you’ve caused for our family with this behavior.”

Billy stares up and doesn’t dare speak. He swallows the blood from his lip so it won’t stain the floor anymore.

“I can’t face living in a place where people might know what you’ve done and laugh about it behind my back. I won’t. So now, because of you, we have to cut all our ties. There will be a pay cut. Moving fees.”

Neil walks slowly closer. Leans down over Billy.

“And I’ll expect changes, Billy. An effort on your part.” He studies Billy as he says it, reads some change on Billy’s face. “That’s right.” He crouches, lifts Billy’s head to study his work. Drops it and brushes his hand off on his jeans like he’d touched something dirty. “No more running around like a little goddamn queer.”

He stands again.

“Now that boy,” he says. “What age would you say he is?”

Billy goes cold. Feels sick and dizzy.

“Well?” Neil stands straighter. Looks down, arms folded.

“He’s twenty-one.” Billy knows that Neil already knows. Is trying to catch him out. Fuck lying at this point. He hurts too much.

“That’s right.” Neil nods like Billy’d won a prize. “And you’re sixteen. You’re sixteen, Son. That means that in the fine state of California, that disgusting fucking shit that you and your buddy got up to is considered rape on his part. Statutory. And you better be thankful that you’re only sixteen, because your age is the only reason that you still have a place under my roof.”

Neil pulls something from his pocket. A slip of paper. Unfolds it and holds it up so that Billy can see the writing. Wes’s writing.

“Now I can’t stand the shame of taking you down to the hospital, having them pull his seed out of you for evidence. I won’t do it. But with these—” And he shakes the note. “—I could press charges any time I felt like it, couldn’t I? Plenty of evidence here to put him away. Dates. Times. Graphic details.”

He folds the note. Turns away, but looks back over his shoulder.

“For now I want you to go let this buddy of yours know that you’re done with him.” 

He pockets the note. Pats his pocket. 

“And Billy, make sure he gets the message. You end it, Son. Clean hard break.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Wes says, pulling Billy back into the moment, woozy from zipping through all that intervening time. His head clears quick enough. Anger’s good for that.

Fuck it. He’s washing his hands of it.

“Really,” Billy says, dry as the Sahara. “Well, I’ll make it real fucking clear for you then. My dad has had my balls in a vice since he caught us is what you should fucking understand. Has the letters we wrote dangling over my head so I can’t even fucking breathe without a threat from him. And here’s me, goddamn torturing myself trying to keep your ass out of jail, because I’m stupid enough to fucking _care_ about you, and there’s you over there can’t fucking handle my heavy situation? Over there with your fucking pool house and your daddy’s fucking credit card and your oh fucking poor me attitude. Fucking laughing at me? Fucking letting your little screw of the minute hang up on me when I call?”

Billy feels himself gliding over some precipice, like slipping out over the misty drop-off of a waterfall. His stomach swoops, but it’s kind of exhilarating.

“You’re not fucking worth the trouble.”

It comes out like a revelation. Like it’d just fucking dawned on him. It had just fucking dawned on him. Then a switch flips. A burst of pure fucking laughter bubbles up outta Billy. Can’t help himself. He feels so fucking light all of a sudden it’s ridiculous.

“Yeah,” he says through a smile. This whole goddamn situation seems so fucking hilarious right now. Stupid enough to be really funny.

“I think I’m fucking over it. You know? Done. Fuck my dad and fuck you too. Go ahead and just disappear, Wes. Or go to jail for all I fucking care. Either way, I’m through protecting you.”

And he laughs again. Can’t fucking keep it in. Hangs up on Wes’s stupid fucking bleating and fucking laughs louder, biting his fist to keep himself quiet. He wipes away tears he’s laughing so hard and that’s when he sees it. Steve’s name written next to a button on the phone.

Well, why not? He presses it. Hears ringing from across the house and fucking starts laughing all over again. ‘Cause fucking rich people, right? After four rings Steve picks up. Groans.

“Why?” he says, all gravel, into the phone.

And shit, Steve’s voice all roughed up with lingering sleep is the sexiest thing Billy’s heard in a while. So he tells him so. It’s that kind of day.

“I want to fuck you,” he says. Feels a zip of adrenaline jolt through him. Feels hot, electrified. He stands up, grabbing the phone base. Paces.

“What?” Steve’s suddenly all kinds of awake.

“I want to fuck you, Harrington.” Billy leans into the counter, closes his eyes and pictures Steve’s long pale limbs, his mark on that smooth cheek. He bites his lip. Fucking beautiful.

“I want to fuck you so hard you still feel it a week later. Want to fucking wreck you. I’ve wanted to wreck you since the first time I saw you. Always fucking wanted you.”

Billy’s heart is hammering and his ears are buzzing, he’s lightheaded but he can’t wipe the fucking grin off his face either. The cocky sharp-toothed smirk. The breathing on the line is all he can hear. The way it’s gone heavy and deep.

“And you fucking want me to do it. You want me.”

And there’s that noise, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear. That little want-you noise, all sex. Back again.

“Am I right?” Billy asks, knowing. Wanting to fucking hear. Stops himself rubbing his dick through his jeans.

“Yes.” Sound of a hard swallow over the line. “Fucking yes, I want you.”

“Since when?”

Breathing on the other end. Quiet. Oh, Stevie-boy. Don’t hold out now.

“After the fight….”

“Felt me all over you, huh? Yeah, I bet.” He hops up on the counter. Lays on it, cool stone on his back. Settles his hand on his mostly hard dick but doesn’t move to unzip his pants, release the pressure. Enjoys the almost-painful throb of it.

“Shit— Yeah. Yeah I felt you,” Steve says, voice gone quiet, serious. 

“How ‘bout now? You feel me now?”

“Mmm,” A shaky breath. “Mmhm.”

Billy sighs into the phone.

“You touching your dick right now?”

Steve lets out a puff of air, almost a laugh, almost a moan. 

“No,” Steve breathes. “You— You are.”

And oh fuck. Billy’s fucking dick jumps and he’s pressing into it, letting out a groan and feeling the phone fall out of his hand, clatter on the counter. He’s panting, reeling in the receiver and trying to unzip his jeans one-handed. He manages, repositions himself and runs his hand firm up the shaft and back down, thumbing the tip at the top.

“Fucking Jesus, Steve.” Billy listens hard. “God you sound so fucking— Must be doing— a goddamn good job.”

His hand moves faster.

“Oh yeah, you fucking— you are.” Comes out in a slurred rush. “Hmm Billy?” Steve pants, breaths coming quicker now, rougher. Voice shaking. “You know what I want even more than your hand on my dick right now?”

“What’s— What’s that?” Near growling it now. Hand playing for keeps. Really going for it. Balls heavier, tightening up for the big finale.

Breath on the other end. Moaning breath quick and tight and stuttered. Then a sound like bliss. A broken full-on moan followed up with long, gasping breaths. Steve came. He just came for Billy. Fuck. Oh fucking shit.

“How bout,” Steve says, still half-gone. “A cup of fucking coffee. That’d be great.” 

Billy’s hand stills. Three long breaths come and go before he can wrap his almost-cumming brain around Steve’s words. When he does he jumps up from the counter, pitches the receiver just generally away, not bothering to hang up. Kicks his pants and underwear full off. Stalks to Steve’s room, stripping off his shirt for good measure as he goes, fucking dick just bopping along with each step, still nearly full-mast all the way. Picturing what he’s gonna do to the guy. He rips the door open to catch Steve half-sitting, phone receiver cradled on one shoulder, dopey expression on his face that turns considering, eyes touching every inch of skin as Billy steps on into the room, breath pumping out hard and muscles taught.

“Come here,” Steve says in that quiet, deadly serious fucking bedroom voice of his. Drops the phone.

Fucking right he’ll come here. Billy crawls over the bed, out of his goddamn mind with wanting.

Steve rises up on his knees, meets Billy, hand finding Billy’s dick and just holding it for a second, their eyes meeting, breaths mingling.

Steve’s hand moves. And God, does it move. Billy’s forehead finds Steve’s shoulder, folding in on himself with how goddamn motherfucking good that hand feels. He moans into Steve, letting go. Sucking in a new breath to moan again. And fuck, he can smell the bastard now. Bastard’s all over him now. Sweet fucking smell of him cut across with leftover whiskey and it’s fucking phenomenal. He’s so fucking close now. So fucking—

“What if—” Steve whispers into his ear, arm snaking around Billy and grabbing a handful of his left ass cheek, fucking squeezing. Christ. “What if I told you that I want to fuck you too, huh? Real slow. Real slow and real sweet till you’re just crying for me. Begging.”

“Ah fu— S-Steve.” His voice breaks.

Steve squeezes a bit harder. Switches his grip up just the slightest bit.

Ohmyfuckinggoddamngod.

“You wanna cum for me, Billy?”

And Billy’s so far gone he just fucking nods into the guy’s shoulder, fucking can’t even get out coherent moans anymore.

Steve’s breath comes in all fucking hot and wet in his ear.

“Good.”

And Billy’s done. He cums for Steve. Cums and cums and goes boneless against Steve’s chest afterwards, just slowly remembering how to fucking breathe again. Just reattaching to reality.

“Oh fuuuuck,” Billy says after his brain kicks in again, and he throws his weight against Steve, tackling him back onto the bed in a controlled fall, being careful of the guy’s stitches. Just lays there half on top of him. “Guess that reputation of yours is well fucking earned.”

“Sure,” Steve says, stretching up carefully and grabbing up a pack of smokes from the nightstand, shaking one up to stick out. “I’m a giver, what can I say?” He pulls the cigarette outta the pack with his teeth, bobbing it up and down playfully around a grin.

Billy huffs out a laugh. Another real one. Buries it in Steve’s chest. He’s way too fucking hot here, on top of the guy, but he can’t make himself care. Fuck the monster too. He’s busy.

Steve’s face is soft again when Billy looks up.

“What?” His smile sags and a sudden pull of wariness almost tugs it down entirely. Those eyes, looking at him. Seeing him. What do they see?

Steve shakes his head. Reaches for the lighter and gets the cigarette going, flips it and sticks the filter between Billy’s lips.

“Nothing at all, Amigo.”

And the smile springs right on back. Fucking idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart


	12. Mexican Standoff Motherfucker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think it was gonna be rainbows and kittens from here on out, did you? Comments fuel my dark dark soul. Top me up.

Billy tries to move. Can’t. Still can’t. He’s been trying for the last hour.

At least he can see now.

His eyes still burn from the pepper spray or whatever that chick had got him in the face with. He ain’t even mad about it. Glad she did it. Because of her, he’s tied up painfully tight to this un-goddamn-comfortable chair, eyes still burning and leaking steadily. He’s here, and not out delivering up fresh meat to a monster the kids keep calling the Mind Flayer.

Like it’s some stupid-ass villain from Lord of the Rings or some geek shit.

Whatever it really is, the Mind Flayer can just fuck off.

Steve walks up and Billy tries to move again. To speak. Pleads with his eyes for Steve to understand. Tryin, man. Still in here, still tryin. Don’t give up.

And hey, don’t leave, okay? Just stay. Cause it’s harder all alone. Stay. 

Fucking stayed for you, right?

Steve checks the ropes again for the thirtieth time. Crouches down and stares Billy in the eye, just looking up at him, chewing on the skin around his thumbnail, eyebrows close to kissing he’s so fucking worried. Then he drops his hand. Scoops up a cloth from a bowl of water and wrings it out, moving sluggishly. Wipes the cool damp fabric over Billy’s eyes again.

“We’re gonna fix this.”

Sounds like he’s gonna cry. Over Billy. Real close to it, voice wobbling on the very edge. And Billy’s finger twitches. His heart gives a great thump at the victory.

Steve.

“I made you a promise.” Steve tilts Billy’s face up by the jaw, looks into his fucking soul. He looks back. Looks right on back. He can still do that much.

Fucking Steve.

“Just— If you’re in there, don’t worry, okay? I’ve got this.”

And then Steve splashes the cloth back into the bowl, sloshing water over the fancy flooring. Walks to the doorway. Stops there for a moment, like he’s about to come back. But he doesn’t. Keeps going, head sagging.

Fuck.

Billy feels the rubber band’s resistance increase. So much harder when he’s alone. And like he knew it fucking would, everything starts to go dark on him.

But he holds it back. He’s fucking diabolically tired from fighting. Gets harder to hold the monster at bay the longer he goes at it. Fuck.

And this morning had been so promising….

“Whadda you mean you don’t have any flour? I want pancakes.”

“I don’t… cook.” Steve says. “Do I seem like someone that cooks?”

Billy opens up the cupboard full of kid’s food again and snorts. It’s all the reply Steve needs.

“I rest my case. Besides, I also don’t have any of the other shit you need for pancakes. Whatever that is. Although I think I might have some really old syrup I was using for ice cream topping at one point.”

Billy holds up a hand.

“Jesus, no. Just stop. Never mind.”

“So _you_ can cook?” Steve leans into him to reach a box of cereal and Billy unobtrusively shifts away. Still a bit skittish when his dick isn’t hard, clouding his judgement. Habits don’t break clean and easy. Patterns hold.

“Yeah,” he says walking away, opening the refrigerator and frowning. “I can cook pancakes.”

“Just pancakes.” Hits him all sarcastic and flat. Like a pancake.

“Well shit, Harrington,” Billy says. “I made toast once.”

And this time Steve snorts. Clatters down one bowl then another on the island counter and starts pouring some rainbow fucking bits of sugar in the bowls.

“Milk?” he asks, reaching out his hand like gimme.

Billy shakes his head but gets the fucking milk. Brings it over to the counter and starts pouring it into Steve’s bowl. Waits for that magic moment when the cereal reaches buoyancy. Then he plunks the carton down on the counter.

“I’m not eating that shit.”

Steve picks up the carton and wets Billy’s cereal.

“Oh sweet Jesus cry me a river over your goddamn pancakes—just eat your cereal already before it gets soggy.”

Billy really doesn’t want to. Especially now. His stomach chooses that exact moment to get talkative though, growling loud enough that Steve huffs out a laugh around his spoon.

Goddammit.

Billy sits on the stool beside Steve and shovels up a lumpy load of cereal. This is a bullshit fucking life. He takes a bite. Hates today even more because the shit’s actually good.

“So why pancakes?” Steve says after swallowing a bite. He toys with what’s left in his bowl while he listens for an answer, evenly distributing the milk.

“Mom taught me.”

He just out and says it. Doesn’t even think about it. And the burn catches up to him afterwards, finds him sitting there in a panic just waiting for it, finds him and digs in after it’s too late to take the words back.

Because there she is again; so tall in his memory, always towering over him, this benevolent fucking beautiful willowy giant that smells like citrus and spice and seems to just radiate light and warmth.

He remembers standing on a chair at her side, watching her flip a pancake and thinking he’d never be able to do something like that. Not with his small clumsy hands. She’s magic. She’s good at everything.

The cereal in his stomach begins rethinking its location. He pushes the bowl away.

Steve watches, eyes big and just taking in all the body language. He puts his spoon down too.

“She die?”

And it would be easier if she had, wouldn’t it? And Billy doesn’t want to explain. Can’t explain this morning, crash down to her level from the almost-content place he’s perched on right now. That fall would be too far. Would be fatal. And the rubber band, that pull the monster has on him, cinches just that little bit tighter when he thinks of it, of her. So he nods. He nods and Steve nods, clears his throat and drops the subject.

Beautiful bastard. Billy almost feels bad for the lie.

He gets up and surveys the mess waiting on the living room floor.

“You know where the maid keeps the broom, Rich-boy?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh fuck you.” Gets up. Walks off. Comes back with a broom and more. And for a while things are quiet and just all around alright as they work together to clean.

“Oh shit,” Steve says, glancing at the kitchen counter as he sips at a Coke after finally talking Billy into a break. “Phone’s been off the hook this whole time.”

He walks over and sets the receiver in the cradle. It immediately starts ringing. His eyebrows shoot up and he flashes Billy some eyes. Like, well that just fucking happened. Picks the receiver back up.

“Hello?” He says, wary. He listens for a bit. “Woah woah woah woah, hey Dustin, man, slow down.” Then he frowns and puts one hand on his hip. “Hey—there’s no need for that kind of language; tone it down hobbit.”

He nods. Mmhm’s. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah fine.” A pause. “I said fine! Just—yeah, just come over here.” He nods. “Yeah, everybody. Uhhuh, great, see you. Yeah, bye.”

He hangs up.

“This is bad.”

“Worse?”

“Way worse.”

Billy leans the broom against the wall, walks closer.

“More monsters worse?” He swipes the can of Coke from Steve’s slack grip. Takes a drink. Hands it back. Steve acts like he barely notices.

“Yup.” He takes a drink too. Pings the metal, pushing the side of the can in and out with his thumb.

“Shit,” Billy says. And he goes ahead and cracks Steve’s fridge to get himself a full can. He’s gonna need it.

The kids are loud when they come in. Had he been that loud ever? Had his voice ever been that annoying? Jesus.

“Take it easy,” Jonathan says, trailing in after the group. “Will, don’t push yourself too hard.”

Great. Guess everybody meant fucking everybody. Nancy strides in after, eyes immediately going to the caved in wall, flitting to the boarded up sliding door. She stays quiet. Watchful. Billy almost wants to say something but he— fucking hell, what is this kid staring at? His eyes swivel over to land on the boy with the horrible haircut and the too-big eyes that had been staring him down in his peripheral vision. Kid looks scared. Just gawking at him. Hand coming up and resting on the back of his neck.

Billy hadn’t even done anything yet.

“Will,” the pale kid, what the fuck was his name? says, hand on the scared kid’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“You were right,” Will says, still staring at Billy. “It’s in him. I can feel it.”

“But he’s alright now.” Max comes up, walks to Billy’s side.

“For now,” Will shrugs, the words quiet. “But it’s probably going to know whatever he knows. See it through him. That’s how it was with me. Even when I was—”

And Big-eyes goes quiet. What the fuck is this kid talking about? How it was with him? How what was?

Steve walks closer. Gestures at the kid before talking to Billy.

“Will was in your position—kind of—God, was it only a few weeks ago? Last time this thing came at us.” He looks at Billy. Long. Too long in all this company. “He’s here to help us get it out of you too.” Like I promised, his eyes say. We’re gonna fix this, they say. Everything’s gonna be alright.

Sure Steve. Sure.

The door opens again and Hopper comes in, a small bird-boned woman behind him. Her dark eyes blaze out fierce from her pale face and she moves up all no-nonsense next to Will.

“Doing alright, Sweetie?” She rubs up and down his arms.

Will nods and he finally tears his eyes off Billy.

“Everything looks quiet outside,” Hopper says after taking in the room, the players. Takes his hat off. “So let’s get down to business. He’s possessed now?”

His heavy arm raises, pointer finger trained on Billy. Well shit.

Standing outside, kicked outta the club for a spy, Billy realizes he can’t even see his own breath in the air. It must be goddamn cold though. He definitely knows the air is cold around him because snow has started falling, serene fat globs of it, and it’s even sticking to the ground where it lands, not melting. The cotton ball flakes fizz out in the still uncovered pool though—bastards heat the thing all winter or something? He watches, blowing out smoke from his half-finished cigarette, pretending it’s the fog of his breath. Like he’s normal or something.

What the fuck is he now? Is he even still human? Can he even survive this level of fucked up? Will he?

Not like he has the best fucking luck over here.

 _We’re gonna fix this_.

Billy closes his eyes and lets the words, Steve’s words, bounce around in his head, warming wherever they touch, reassuring himself with the confidence in that voice.

Okay, Steve. Okay. I’ll just leave you to it. Don’t fuck me on this.

“Billy?”

It’s Max. He nods, prying his eyelids open. Yeah, he’s still Billy.

“They done plotting in there?”

“No.” Max comes up closer. Nudges her shoulder against his arm. “I just couldn’t listen. I’m— scared. For you.” And She's embarrassed to admit it too.

“Shit,” he says. “I’m scared enough for myself.” Billy nudges against her arm with his. “Got it covered, you know? Don’t need any help from a little punk like you on that front.”

“You’re scared?”

“What?” Billy asks. “You thought it was your own special talent?”

“Just surprised you’d admit it, Dumbass.” Her eyes find the ground. “To me at least.”

“Maybe—” Billy says, pushing against his every leftover instinct. “Maybe I trust you not to tell anyone.”

She sucks in a loud breath. Looks up at him. Looks worried. A little guilty.

“You shouldn’t,” she says, and tears bead up to stand in her eyes. 

He feels his eyebrows crash together in confusion.

“I fuck up everything,” she says, voice quavering. “Even when I’m trying to help I just fuck it up.”

“What are you talking about?” Billy takes her upper arm in his hand, gently steers her around so he can look at her full-on.

“Wes,” she says, voice small.

“I don’t give a shit about all that anymore. I’m over it. Was stupid kid’s stuff, like you said. Should have dropped it a long time ago.”

She shakes her head.

“No,” She whispers, hugging herself. “Not then. Just the other day. The letter. He made you burn it in front of us, made you burn it without even reading it, and Wes never would have sent it if I hadn’t written him first. Pretended to be you. To try—try to make things right. Try to fix it with us.”

“What?”

 _I don’t understand. You wrote me. I was just writing back_.

No he didn’t.

 _Apologize to Susan for the mess you’ve made in her kitchen_.

And it didn’t even sound like he was crying.

 _Your situation is just too heavy_.

You’re tellin’ me.

 _Bye Billy_.

Laughter. Fucking laughter. Fucking two sets of laughter on the line.

Billy.

Billy.

Billy.

 _Billy_.

“Billy. You’re hurting my arm. Billy? Hey!”

He makes his hand release her. Claws it in and out twice, grasping air, fighting for control.

He needs to get the fuck out of here. Now. He starts walking.

“You can’t leave! Billy!?”

Hears her quick-patter footsteps fading on the concrete. Hears her yelling for help; keeps walking deeper into the woods on the other side of the pool. Keeps walking till he’s pulled suddenly back, stopped short, reeled in by long arms and falling smack into a familiar chest.

“Let me go, Steve.”

“Where?” His hold stays firm. Way too fucking hot. Making Billy’s skin crawl with his goddamn heat.

“Somewhere safe.”

He shakes Steve off, shoves him back hard and starts running through the fucking trees. He could just fuck off into the woods and no one would be able to find him again—hadn’t he thought that once? Thinks maybe now's a real good time to make good on the thought. Just fuck off and die. He runs faster, pumping his legs harder. Yeah, that’s a real solid plan.

When he stumbles out into the road, he doesn’t even register the screeching tires at first, though he hears the noise; is too busy tripping over the lip of asphalt at the edge of the pavement and stumbling out into the car’s path.

He feels the impact though. And then the second, when he hits the ground after a brief trip and a few flips through the air. He can’t do much but lie there, after. He can’t do much period. Can’t even think to take stock of his wounds. Distracted. Because there’s the strangest shifting feeling happening inside him. Like bones are sliding against each other, repositioning themselves to knit right. Like organs are squelching back into place. A sharp snap of pain doubles his sensation and he realizes that he hadn’t been able to feel anything below the waist before that moment; that his spine had been snapped in half by the impact.

But that’s not the worst of it.

Billy

 _Billy_

_Billy_

He’s disappearing again. Feels his body rising of its own accord, jerkily, not quite whole enough to be moving yet. Watches as his vision goes dim.

“Holy shit, holy shit, oh shit oh shit. It’s Billy Hargrove. Oh, stellar job, Robin. Just run down Billy-goddamn-Hargrove in your car, sure—shit! What the hell are you gonna do now? Oh shit, first aid. I should do first aid.”

The girl walks closer.

“Oh holy shit you’re getting up now. Maybe you shouldn’t? Maybe you should just lie down? Hey.”

She comes closer. Closer. Go away! Fucking run! But he’s slipping. Slipping. 

Gone.

And then he’s back. Back behind his eyes and oh Jesus fucking Christ they’re burning! He swipes at them furiously. Stumbles back, near falling on his ass with the pain.

“Yeah, back up, Buddy!” he hears. “There’s more where that came from!”

“He’s here!” A jumble of footsteps approaching. He finally gives in and falls on his ass. Feels the monster take back one leg then the other. Fights it. But he’s not strong enough to push it back, regain the territory, only to stop the progress. And it’s pushing harder every second against him.

“Billy!”

Steve.

“Stay back!” he yells. “Shit, Steve, I can’t hold it!” He loses himself up to the chest. Then feels his right arm numb. His left. His reality starts to go again.

“No!” Something collides into him, near knocks him flat on his back. “Not because of me. Don’t let it get you because of me, Asshole!” Arms wrap him tight. Hot. Burning. “Help him!” he hears.

“Max,” he says. It’s the last thing he gets out. 

But he doesn’t budge an inch further toward the nothing waiting to swallow him. Doesn’t let it take over completely. He holds it. Mexican standoff. Fuck you motherfucker, not goin nowhere. He holds it as they tie him up. As they haul him back through the woods to Steve’s house. As they tether him to a chair in a big empty room; alone.

It’s so much harder alone.

And now, cleansing tears coating his freshly-cleaned cheeks already though Steve had just left, eyes itchy and horrible in the aftermath, he waits.

Waits for Steve to come back again and make it easier. A respite.

And he holds the line.

Mexican Standoff Motherfucker.

What you got?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto


	13. Only Hurts Like it Shouldn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thanks to an amazing comment there's a playlist now! Find it after the story. Didn't keep it pre-1984 because I'd need to do just soooo much research to get into all that if I didn't just want obvious songs. And I'm lazy. Anyway, take a listen if you want. I like it.
> 
> And of course your comments are the very air I breathe, so leave one, won't you?

Well, something’s fucking going on.

“Okay,” Billy hears Steve say from somewhere behind his head. “Lift.”

His body is hoisted, cocooned tight in rope, from the chair. Carried through the house by a host of hands, propping him up like he’s crowd surfing at some concert or something. Like he’d just jumped off the stage.

And now he’s got a song running through his head. Some fucking beat, heavy and right and alive. And he’s looking at Wes in some cramped sweaty seedy little club, and he’s flashing a smile, cupping Wes’s dick as he brushes past to scam a drink. And no one sees. 

Then it’s gone. He’s right back here. Right back on the edge. Fucking teeter-tottering over oblivion. So fucking hard to hold on. To stay in the moment.

But Steve’s there in his ear. Whispering how they’re gonna _fix this right now_ and how it’s _gonna be okay_ and how Billy needs to _just hold on a little longer_ in such a steady stream that Billy doesn’t wanna disappoint him.

Sure. Sure thing, Pal. But could you fucking hurry it up a little, maybe? Do a guy a favor? 

Please?

He digs in tighter, blood under his metaphorical nails with the effort to keep himself behind his eyes. Hurts so bad. Hurts so fucking bad to fight though. Oh God.

And he’s just so fucking tired. Steve. Can’t. Can’t fucking do it. So tired.

They lay him on the ground and good, good, he can finally rest. And the ground is cool beneath him even through the thick carpet. But after a solid beat that one point of cool comfort means nothing. Because it finally catches up to him. The heat. Because the room they’ve put him in is on fire.

Must be. Shit shit shit no get out! Go! But no— Not fire, no, just—no flames, just a fucking oven. Roasting. Burning. Burning him.

No. Oh fuck no. His body writhes and it’s this sickening foreign feeling of muscles firing without any command from him, from his brain, just rippling around under the surface of his skin with a mind of their own, collectively pushing till his limbs heave beneath the ropes and he rolls and bucks. He’s just along for the ride.

“Let me out! Let me go! Let me out!”

Not his voice flowing out of him, buzzing over his hijacked vocal cords. Not his words.

Stoke the fucking coals is what he says. Just wanna die. Wanna stop. Wanna just go. 

…Can’t go.

Because Steve....

Gotta fucking fight because Steve asked. Asked him to pretty please. Gotta.

He screams with the pain, with the burning, and finally, finally, it’s his voice coming outta his mouth. It’s followed by a sloppy wet cough, a geyser of black liquid sputtering up on it into the air and pattering back cold onto his burning skin, bubbling up a puddle in his mouth, down his throat, drowning him.

Can’t fucking breat— Help—

“Oh God, help him. This isn’t right. It isn’t like it was with Will. I don’t know— I don’t know if—”

A woman’s voice. Mom? Mom help, can’t—

Hot hands on him, turning him so the blackness flows free, spilling out, and he gasps ragged. Drinks in the air. Finally gets a full breath. Sees Steve’s face for a quick moment from below when his head cracks back in a painful strain with another contortion. 

Still in here. Still here. Help. Stay.

_Or, oh god, just tell me I can go. Just…._

His eyes plead this last. But Steve doesn’t see. And in another writhing movement, Steve vanishes. Billy’s vision keeps fogging dark then clearing. Eyes leaking again. Same black shit as what’s still bubbling out of his mouth no doubt. Tastes like iron. Like blood. Is this shit blood? Is this shit his blood now? His hearing cottons up like he swam and didn’t get all the water out, then it runs clear only to muffle up again. Cool trickles slide down his burning cheek. He coughs again, watching the black splatter out all fine onto the carpet. Speckle it with his new dark blood.

Reverse stars. Ink on cream. He stares. Focuses.

“Why are all the stars piled up out over the ocean, Mom?”

He’s seven, bundled in a blanket, his mom’s soft tummy at his back and the sand floury under him. He scrunches his toes. Drops the sand he gathers. Leans his head back on her chest and rides the waves of her even breathing. Listens to the surf sweeping in and going out.

“They get jealous of all the lights here I think.” She says, sweeping his hair back and planting a kiss. “Out over the water they get to be the brightest things around.”

Pain sweeps him back into the present. His whole body wrenches up, impossibly, agonizingly. His muscles strain against the ropes. They creak ominously.

“He’s gonna bust out!” someone yells.

“No way,” Someone else says, hopeful.

Then he’s flattened. Hot weight pins him back to the carpet, all down him. His face is two feet from the fire. Stuck. Trapped. Oh God oh fuck oh God just let him go!

“Billy,” comes the burning whisper, fire blown into his ear. “I need you to fight, okay?”

And he feels a laugh curdle out, bubbling out on a stream of more rancid black.

_What the fuck you think I’m doin, Princess?_

Another whisper. “Hey. Stay right here.” And another. “—know you can fucking do this.” And with every whisper, with the blistering weight on him, pushing him into the carpet, branding him, he feels the shuddering spasms weakening. Feels his body stilling. Numbing. The black oozes out of him slow now, a molasses trickle from the corner of his mouth. The fire is right there. More heat traps him from his other side. A hot sweltering ring around him. He’s looking at the fire dancing in the grate; the flames bake his eyeballs dry.

“Fucking cocoa,” Billy whispers, smiling, remembering.

“What?”

Steve’s face is inches from his cheek. He can’t see him, but Billy can feel him there. Feel his breath. Warm puffs on his cheek. Feels nice. Cheek is cold.

“Steve.” And Billy’s scared all of a sudden but doesn’t know why. Tired and afraid of going to sleep. “It’s cold in here. Why's it so cold in here?”

And it is. Suddenly he’s fucking freezing. Can’t feel his feet, his hands. So fucking tired. Fucking just needs to sleep, okay, but he can't; he's scared. Why is he so—

He feels Steve rise up off him and a wave of freezing air hits him where they separate. No. Lay back down, Steve. Hears someone sobbing. Far off. So far away. Sounds like a little girl. Sounds familiar.

“Is he—?”

Max.

“Stop it, okay? Please? Please! You’re killing him!”

“It should have worked by now.”

That same lady, spoken in an anxious rush.

“I think it’s different this time. I think it’s learned.”

One of those goddamn kids. Billy fades out. Brightens back in.

“So stop it! Now! Get him the hell out of here!”

Max. Don’t cry, dumbass. He closes his eyes, feels sleep pull him under.

“It’s okay.” Billy says, seeing a scrawny fire-haired 4 year old before him, eyes full of tears and unwilling to come out of the corner. They’d just moved in, her and her mom. And his mom hadn’t come back yet. And it felt like they were here to replace her—which wasn’t gonna happen if Billy had anything to say about it. But this little girl didn’t want to be here any more than he wanted her here and that made him hate her a little less. Made her some kind of ally, because they both thought this change was a load of shit. A shared secret. A common denominator.

“It’s okay. I know it’s not your fault,” he tells her, holding out a hand. It’s all their parent’s fault. That much is easy to see. And he feels kind of sorry for her, just curled up there all day crying. Scared to move. In a whole new house. With his dad.

“Anyway, you don’t have to cry about it. I guess you’re supposed to be my sister now. Pretty sure that means I’ve gotta look out for you.”

She just looks up, suspicious. But after a while, after he just stands there, real still, like she’s some spooked animal he’s trying to calm, she finally nods, reaches out a hand. Lets Billy haul her slowly up.

“Promise?” she says, deadly serious.

The scene brightens till it’s blinding, till it loses all sense of meaning. And he loses all sense of self. But in a good way, yano?

Then he’s back, looking Max in the eye. Forgets he’d ever left.

“Sure,” Billy says. She glares. “Promise,” he amends.

“Billy. Billy wake up! He’s breathing!”

He is awake. Jesus, stop yelling. He just wants to sleep in a little longer, okay? Close his eyes again. And where’s his blanket, anyway? He’s fucking cold.

He slips off into the warm black.

But not the nothing. Dark or light.

Just the black.

And floating there in the black he hears voices.

“Just so you know, I so did not sign up for this today. It’s a Saturday for chrissakes. I just wanted to go see a nice mindless movie on my Saturday, like everyone else. Now I’ve got a freaky possessed boy, police coercion, and a whole lot of talk about monsters taking over Hawkins—which I live in by the way.”

“Hey,” Hopper says, and Billy can feel him pointing, finger emphasizing his words. “I did not coerce. I didn’t even accuse you of anything. I simply asked you, very nicely, to follow me so I could take down a statement.”

“Unless of course you’d feel more comfortable talking down at the station,” the girl says in a horrible impression of Hopper’s deep voice.

“Both of you out!”

Billy lets himself slip off again. 

Wakes up to a warm cloth running his cheek.

“You fucking mother-henning me again, Harrington?”

“No. No kiddo, it’s just me.” The woman from earlier. “Though, I guess that doesn’t really help, does it?” She huffs out a laugh. “I don’t think we’ve actually been introduced.”

The cloth swipes warm over his cheek again. Not too hot. Just warm. And he can feel the cold of the room seep in unpleasantly as it drinks up the heat from the warm water. He can feel the cold. He can feel it.

“Well fuck me,” he whispers. Chuckles weakly. Big mistake. He launches into a coughing fit that slips him back off into the black. But only for a minute. She’s still there when he opens his eyes again.

“So who the hell are you?” he asks. He’s careful with his voice. Wants to stay here. Stay awake.

The black isn’t safe to stay in for long. It’s warm, but it’s not fucking safe. And he doesn’t know how he knows.

Put a fucking pin in it.

The lady gives him a look, rolls her eyes and shakes her head, leg jiggling as she sits.

What? What’d he do now?

“Joyce,” she says. “Will’s mom. Jonathan’s mom. I don’t know who you know.”

Billy just lays there a bit. Takes a few slow steady breaths to keep from passing out again. Tries to calm his pounding heart. Don’t go back. Can’t go back. He focuses on her face. She has the same big eyes as the kid with the staring problem. The same permanently worried expression as Jonathan.

“Your kid went through this shit?”

She nods, suppressing a wince. Bad memories, he’d bet. Clasps her hands and leans forward, elbows on knees, face all sincere. But strong.

“Must be a tough little bastard,” he says. Tougher than him. Tough enough to win.

“Oh yeah,” She says, drawing out the yeah with a quick smile, bright eyes. “He’s something else, my Will. Something special.”

Then her hand is on his forearm. Wrapping it warmly and giving it a little squeeze. It feels nice there. Warm, not hot. Comfortable. He looks away from that hand. Lets it be. She’s looking hard at him and he can feel it and he finally makes himself meet that gaze.

“This, tonight, it doesn’t mean you’re weak, you know. This doesn’t mean you lose—”

“Yeah?” He huffs, sarcastic little puff of air. “The thing's in me too deep now. It’s just—got me too hard. Too much of me or something. Like there’s more _it_ than me now. Christ lady where were you tonight? I damn near died—”

“Did die.”

It’s so low that Billy near misses it, next words queued up and crashing loud in his head at the sudden stop. But it’s Steve’s voice from the other side of the bed. Steve’s voice and so Billy quiets the hell up when he hears it. Shuts his mouth because the words had come out so small. So dead. Quiets the fuck down to hear what’s about to come next. He resists the urge to whip his head around, slowly tilting it instead. He’s met with empty air.

“Can I have a minute?”

There it is again. But this time Billy can pinpoint the location. Steve must be sitting on the floor. Leaned up against the bed. Hiding.

“Yeah. Sure, of course.”

She gives Billy’s arm one more encouraging squeeze before getting up. Walking out and closing the door.

“Now what the fuck are you talking about, Harrington? Whadda you mean I died? Don’t you think I would have, I dunno, maybe noticed that shit?”

Steve’s hair rises above the horizon of the mattress, then he continues on up to standing. Billy tips his head back to keep on him, exhausted even by that.

“You didn’t have a pulse. You weren’t—you weren’t breathing, okay? You fucking died on my living room floor. And I didn’t know what the hell to do. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do. I just— I didn’t know—”

“Hey,” Billy says, straining to stay lying down, voice pushed as loud as he dares, not liking the vacant look on Steve’s face one fucking bit. “Snap the hell out of it. I’m alive. I’m right here.”

He lifts his hand, an invitation, muscles shaking with the effort, and he lets out a sigh of relief when Steve snaps it up, holds it up so Billy can relax. He closes his eyes and just breathes. Breathe. Jesus.

Don’t fucking die again.

“And now you’re in here in a goddamn guest room, just hidden away like some messy problem. Just hoping you’re gonna be fine. And I know we can’t even take you to the hospital because who the fuck knows what your insides look like now and we can’t have the government back sniffing after El, and I agree, I know, but I just—Billy, are you okay? Are you gonna be alright? I mean—”

“Goddammit,” Billy whispers. He motions with his other hand for Steve to get the hell over here already. Steve just stands there, freaking out, oblivious. Idiot.

“Jesus, what are you waiting for, Princess, a fucking invitation embossed in gold leaf? Get in this bed with me. Now.”

Steve climbs in. Too quick. Like he’d been holding himself back from it. Jostling. Oh fucking Christ no.

“Gently, Jesus, gently,” Billy whispers, feeling a cold sweat break out. Feeling that too warm gauzy pull back to black.

Steve slows up to the point he’s fucking painful to watch. Finally, he’s lowered down into the soft mattress beside Billy, just there, inches away. Eyes big. Scared big.

“Who brought me back?”

“Hopper and the girl that hit you with a car. Before Macing you. She looks familiar, come to think of it.”

Good. This is good. Best to get him talking. Get that mouth going and distracting the thoughts that keep freezing him up. But something else isn’t right with the guy. Steve still looks too tense.

“What do you need, Steve? What else do you need?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, frowning. “I’m fine. Stop. What the hell do _you_ need?”

“Honestly, right now I just need you to stop freaking the hell out. Just tell me what you need.”

“Goddamn— nothing!” Steve’s hand whips out reflexively to shove at Billy’s side, stops it landing last moment. Freezes. Blows out a tense breath. Then he closes the gap. Lays his hand on Billy’s bare skin above the blanket. Gentle. Warm.

Fucking real nice now that he can appreciate warmth again. Fuck, who is he kidding. For the first time. He’d never known what he was missing before all this.

And Steve’s face settles. His tense shoulders melt. Billy grins weakly.

“Well that was fucking simple.”

“Yeah, I’m real easy to please,” Steve says, and his hand ghosts up to Billy’s chest. Lays there like a contented cat in a sunbeam, just riding his breath. Steve closes his eyes.

“Glad you’re alive,” he whispers, moving almost imperceptibly closer.

And Billy raises his hand, slowly, to rest on top of Steve’s. And that’s when he feels the burning start up on the skin under Steve’s palm. He pulls a face, glad for Steve’s closed eyes. It gives him time to correct that shit. To wipe it clean.

“You and me both.”

The cold air doesn’t get warmer. His skin just grows numb to it. And he feels strength seeping back through his limbs on a painful wave. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

But that’s as far as it goes. The rubber band stays slack, no resistance to be found. And that’s good. That’s a-okay. He’ll worry about that later.

He lifts his hand, easy now, and slides it back through Steve’s hair, turning to face him. Sees Steve’s eyes flick open with a start as he’s leaning in and capturing the guy’s lips. Letting them go just as quick and pulling back out. Nothing really. Doesn’t even know why he does it.

“You shouldn’t—”

Oh fuck that.

He leans in again and slips the guy some tongue, rolling him flat, pressing him down.

Steve shoves up, flips him on his back in his rush to get up, is sitting above him all of a sudden, face horrified.

“It tastes like blood….”

Shit. And Billy’s not gonna be able to forget that face. That he caused that face. How had he fucking forgotten the blood? That his mouth had been filled with that black poisoned blood not an hour ago. Fucking moron. Get your shit together.

“Are you?” Steve begins, fingers wiping across his lower lip like they might clean the taste of Billy’s blood away. “Did it heal you again? Are you—? That girl said—”

“Steve,” Billy says, feeling like he has to. Feeling guilty for not explaining this earlier. “This is fucked. You caring—” 

He pauses, not knowing how to say it nice. Maybe there is no nice.

“Look, I’m just gonna end up dead. That’s how this ends. Don’t you know that? Can’t you fucking see that? This thing ain’t letting me go.”

Nothing. Silence. Then Steve’s hand is back on Billy's chest.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Fair enough.” And he runs a thumb over Billy’s cheek. Any bruises he had given Billy must have healed, because his touch doesn’t burn like it should. Only like it shouldn’t, too hot. “When you’re dead. Really dead. When you’re lying there and the CPR doesn’t work after a couple minutes like it did this time— When you don’t start breathing again like you just did and find me first thing when you open your eyes— When you’re that dead, I’ll give up trying. I’ll call it.”

He leans down, too close to see anything and Billy closes his eyes, just feeling Steve there hovering above, nose brushing his, lips millimeters away.

“But not a fucking second before then.” His lips brush Billy’s with his words. “Fuck that monster.” And Steve crushes Billy’s lips to his, backs off enough to bite, to pull Billy’s bottom lip between his teeth, to dive in again and taste Billy’s mouth with his tongue like he's claiming the lingering blood for his own.

“It can’t have you,” Steve whispers, barely taking a break from kissing the breath outta him.

Fine by him. A-okay.

Billy stops thinking. Gets into the rhythm of the kiss, pulling Steve closer, looking for more. His arm shoots up when Steve finds his neck, bites at his pulse point, and he grabs the bar of the headboard in some useless attempt to ground himself.

Steve slides, adjusts, and this new position allows Billy to buck up and meet Steve’s thigh with his damn-quick hardening dick. He lets out a groan. Grabs the headboard tighter.

SNAP

He jumps as splinters flick him in the forehead. Opens his eyes to see Steve staring openmouthed at the solid wood frame.

“You broke my bed.”

Billy lets his grip loose and there’s a clatter as the thick hunk of wood falls to the floor. He cranes his neck to see what the fuck had just happened.

“Is this new?” Steve asks, looking back down into Billy’s face.

“Fucking new to me,” Billy says, just staring back, feeling his eyes and how wide they are.

“Steve!” comes a call from the other side of the door. “We need to go over this new development.”

“Fucking kids,” Steve grumbles, shaking his head but smiling while he does. Throwing his eyes back to the broken bed before answering. “Yeah. Be right there, Dustin.”

Steve rolls off, dangles his legs over the edge of the bed, runs a hand through his hair.

“I need you to give a shit about yourself, okay?” he turns, looks back. His face is fucking impossible to read in silhouette. Beautiful fucking mystery. 

“I need you to trust that we’re gonna find something—some answer to this,” he says. He gestures to Billy, to the headboard.

“Have a little faith,” he says. And he reaches out, flicks Billy’s St. Christopher medal.

Billy snorts, but he grabs Steve’s hand. Holds it near his chest. Chews his lip. Can’t seem to fucking be able to say, let Steve know, that he’s got plenty of faith. Just not in some unknowable fucking God. That he gave it away a little closer to home. And yeah, he’d lost sight of it for a second—dying will do that to a guy—but faith doesn't just disappear. Doesn't work like that.

“I’m all in,” he finally says. “It’s all I got.”

Steve just nods. Lets his hand go slack in Billy’s and slides on out of bed. Billy lets go. Lets him rise.

“Guess it's time to cook up another bright idea,” Steve says. Sighs as he opens the door. Walks through and swings it gently shut, not looking back.

And Billy feels the rubber band give a tentative little tug inside. He fingers the St. Christopher medal that Steve had reminded him of. Worn it so long that he doesn’t even feel it against his skin anymore. Forgot it was there.

But he doesn’t pray. Just fondles the medal. Sits in the dim room, all alone.

Here we fucking go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC


	14. Big Death Little Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I'm saying is I may have had to research historically accurate lube for this one and I'm strangely comfortable with that. 
> 
> Okay, I'll also mention lots of feels in this one. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Comments are my sunshine. My only sunshine. They make me happy. When skies are grey.

Fuck this kept in the dark bullshit. He can’t just wait here and hope for the best.

Needs to move. Needs to do something. Just, anything.

Needs to tell them.

Billy hops up off the bed and strides on out the door. Walks toward the voices. Finds them all gathered in the living room. Serious faces. Even the kids look so goddamn adult in the moment.

Steve does a double-take when he lays eyes on Billy. Looks at him with big eyes, all what-the-fuck, all how’m-I-supposed-to-explain-this? Guess he wasn’t expecting this shit, huh?

Billy just grins. You’ll figure something out, the grin says. You’re King Steve, right? Fucking wow me.

“And did I mention Billy’s miraculously better?” Steve says, in an offhand mutter, gesturing at him.

Smooth.

“Might’ve slipped my mind,” he finishes, clearing his throat afterwards.

“Billy!”

Max jumps up when she sees him and rushes over, looking for all the world like she plans on going in for a hug and he doesn’t know if he’s prepared for that shit. That’d just be—

She doesn’t, of course. Skids to a stop not two feet away from Billy and kicks him in the shin. There she is. There’s the Max we know and love.

“What the fuck!” He yells, trying to grab his shin and stay standing. Which is impossible to look cool doing, by the way.

“That’s for scaring the shit out of me!”

“Wha—it’s not like I had any choice in the matter!” he roars, on one leg, hopping a little for balance now.

“Guys, settle down,” someone says, and Billy whips his head around to see Lucas standing there half-assed and uncertain like he knows he should’ve just stayed sitting down.

“Shut up!” Billy and Max say at once.

“Wow, as an only child, I’m really missing out,” the curly-haired kid, Dustin? says, smiling brightly in the beat of silence after.

The weird dark-eyed girl just nods sagely. El. Her name is El or something.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me he was okay!” Max screams at Steve, ignoring Dustin, then swings on back to Billy. “How the hell are you okay!?”

And she just stands there, crossed arms bobbing up and down on her angry breath, waiting, blue eyes hard and pinning him in place.

“How the fuck should I know, Max!” he finally says, exasperated, losing his balance and planting both feet, hating the way everyone is looking at him now. “Same way I survived a car to the gut at 65 miles an hour! How’s that?”

“Hey! So wasn’t speeding!” the chick that had run him down says, eyes darting to the cop.

“What-the fuck-ever!” he says, throwing his arms out, exasperated. Then he rubs at his eyes. “Look,” he says, tries again, “I came out here because I thought you should know. When I was alone in there, I noticed something. Don’t fucking know _how_ I noticed, of course….”

His eyes are on the carpet, scanning it, maybe looking for the spot where he’d died. Thinking that spot should look different from the rest somehow. Should’ve been changed somehow by something like that happening on it. But nothing stands out. It’s like nothing ever happened in this room. Like his death was utterly fucking inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

Yeah, you know what? Fuck that train of thought.

He wanders closer to Steve, shooting Nancy and her nervous glance a half-feral grin—his specialty. Guess she’s still hung up over last time. Jonathan rolls his eyes over her shoulder. Ah. There’s his mom, clear in his face when he does it. Billy sees now. Can’t help but see him differently for it.

His little brother….

“It’s making more like me,” he goes on, spinning slowly to look at them all, their attentive eyes the lesser of two evils between that and the carpet. “It’s done gathering up meat for its body or whatever the hell it was doing before. Now they’re just out there. Waiting. At least twenty of em. Like an army.”

Silence.

He comes up to Steve and wrangles the pack of cigarettes out of the guy’s jeans pocket unceremoniously, not really fucking caring what it looks like. Holds it up and shakes it as he turns to go back to his cell.

“I’ll just let you get back to figuring out how to save the fucking world,” he says. “Have fun with that.”

Then he throws a wave over his turned back and fucks off. But when he gets back to the room they’d stashed him to rot in he falls back into the closed door and just stands there in the dark, thinking about that fucking carpet.

Finally, he chucks the pack onto the bed with a disgusted noise and walks into the attached bathroom. Fucking rich people. Strips down the rest of the way and gets in the shower. But even when the water is on, when it’s washing over him, just barely warm and still too hot, he only stands there. Doesn’t actually _do_ anything. Watches the black blood swirling the drain. Watches it till it disappears.

Then he just stands there awhile longer.

He’d fucking died. _Died_.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there under the spray when the shower door opens. Little bit longer than forever is his best guess.

“Billy?”

Billy turns his head. His muscles protest, having been still for so long. But how long? How long had he really been standing here? Long enough to be worrying. So a fuckin while, then.

“I waited,” Steve says, quiet, like he doesn’t wanna spook Billy. Like Billy’s a wild horse he’s trying to tame. “Everyone left and I heard the shower running so I just waited. But it’s been two hours since then and—I had to check. I was— I had to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m—” Billy looks back down at the drain. I’m fine. It’s what he’s supposed to say. But he can’t finish the lie. It’s stuck in his throat. “I’m… really fucking not,” he whispers. Closes his eyes. Can’t believe he’d fucking said it.

Why had he fucking said it?

“Hey, it’s okay. That’s okay,” Steve says, and—yeah, this is why he should just keep his fucking mouth shut. Because now Steve’s walkin on into the shower, clothes and all. Coming up trying to comfort him.

“Cold,” Steve says, jumping the moment the spray hits him, gasping. But he keeps coming. Because Billy’d opened his goddamn mouth.

Billy just nods, jaw clenched tight. Bracing himself.

Steve turns the water off. Moves around behind and pulls Billy into his chest, arms circling. And it feels so goddamn good that Billy wants to puke. And he can’t relax. Can’t do it. This is bullshit. He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t accept it.

Because he can’t make himself believe that he’ll be able to keep it. Count on it.

So he can’t let himself depend on it.

Ever.

But he’s just so fucking tired. So fucking tired and so fucking scared.

And he’d just fucking died.

So why can’t he? Just this once? Huh?

He stands there in the sweltering embrace. Hot, but bearable. And he finally melts back into it. Fucking so good. So good. But after awhile, when Steve lets him loose, backs off, it’s so he can reach for a washcloth and some soap. To lather the cloth up and start cleaning Billy. Like he’s worth something. Worth cleaning up. Worth taking care of. And Billy feels himself tensing again.

“Stop,” Billy says. This shit is way too much and now he can’t fucking breathe. “I can’t— You can’t just fucking do that.” And he fights the urge to bat Steve’s hand away and just bolt. And his goddamn voice is hard but it’s also starting to go all wobbly, ‘cause it has to squeeze on past the big ol’ lump in his throat to come out.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ, he’s gonna cry isn’t he?

“Why?” Steve asks.

Then his hot hand is turning Billy to face him. Billy leans back into the cold tile. Can’t fucking meet Steve’s eyes. He just shakes his head. Can’t get the words out without crying like a little baby girl and he knows it. And those big fucking brown eyes are on him, worried, gentle. So close. Everything Billy can’t let himself want right now; needs to protect himself from right now.

Steve rests the washcloth back on Billy’s chest.

“Why can’t I?”

“I can do it my goddamn self.” The words come out fine. Only a little too gruff. The tears hold off.

“But now you don’t have to,” Steve says.

And he runs the washcloth over Billy’s chest. Washes over his shoulder. Trails down Billy’s arm.

“Just gonna clean you up,” he goes on, continues sudsing. “That’s all. I don’t know what to fucking say about all this. To make it better. I’ve never had words like that. I don’t even know if there are words like that. But I’ve got this.”

And Steve runs the washcloth back up the underside of Billy’s arm, lifts the arm and runs it down into the hollow of Billy’s armpit, then skates south, running over his ribs, cleaning his side.

“So just shut up and let me take care of you.” A whisper. Soothing. Shushing. Too fucking tender when Billy’s already so raw.

“I don’t need it,” Billy says, breath fast and head thrown back against the tile wall. His voice is fucked. His eyes burn as the tears seep out. Right on the edge of fucking losing it. “I don’t need it I don’t—”

“Billy,” Steve says, saying Billy’s name like it’s something fucking precious as he swipes up one of Billy’s tears with a soap-free knuckle. “Everyone needs it. I— I know that much, okay?” And it sounds like he’s about to cry any second now, right along with Billy.

Well look at the two of them. Some fucking pair.

Billy puts his hand on Steve’s on the washcloth. Holds Steve there on the path back up his chest.

“Why do you give a shit about me?” And his voice comes out small, mostly breath, like some scared, teary little kid. “Huh?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, dark eyes locked up tight on Billy’s. “I guess you just seem worth it. I guess I just do. So, I dunno, deal with it.”

Billy lets out a wet laugh. Brushes the hand away. Pushes Steve back.

“What are you—?”

“Fucking getting out of debt,” Billy mutters, not really meaning Steve to hear.

He drops to his knees, hears them crack on the wet tile and doesn’t fucking care, just holding back the tears. Reaches up to undo Steve’s jeans.

“What the fuck are you doing? Hey, hey—”

“Please,” Billy says, working at the metal button frantically. “Just stop. Stop being so fucking nice to me. I can’t—"

Steve’s hands wrap Billy’s. Still them.

“You don’t have to fucking pay it back,” Steve says, and is that disgust in his voice? Fuck.

“It doesn’t...work like that.” Voice softer now as his hand hooks Billy’s chin and wrenches it up to lock eyes, to drive home the point. “Hey. Life doesn’t work like that.”

“Maybe not where you live.” And Billy’s choking on the sobs now. Knows he won’t be able to stop them coming in the end.

Steve hauls him up. Kisses him, one sweet brief moment.

“Free of charge,” he says. Then he goes back to washing Billy.

And the silence is too much. Billy leans back into the wall. Drawing strength from the hard cold of it.

“I’m not,” he says, because he can’t let the silence go on any longer. “Not worth it like you think. I’m a fucking monster.” And there it is. The truth of it. And it’s the plug that lets out a sob. And you can never get away with just one of those motherfuckers. They pile on top of each other till Billy can barely breathe. They pull out of him long and burning, taking things with them as they go. Things that cut on the way out.

He’d been too much for mom to handle. That’s the truth of it. Too much trouble. All those fucking months jumping at every phone call after she’d walked out. Her stupid fucking traitor voice over the phone. Her “I just can’t handle it Billy. I can’t come back.” Yeah, like he fucking could. She was supposed to fucking protect him. Take care of him. The dwindling calls. Her new baby wailing in the background. The annoyance in her voice. She’d dumped him off to be raised by a monster and now look what he’s become. Proud, Mom? Just fucking look at him now. Just mean and scared and violent and fucking angry. A fucking murderer. Bad news. Has been for a while. Must be, huh, because she always fucking knew, didn’t she? And she was right to run. Running was smart. The right choice. But fucking Steve just keeps cleaning him, washcloth sliding over every bit of his bare flesh. Just lets Billy cry like it’s okay to cry. Like it’s allowed. Just keeps taking care of him like he deserves it. Like he deserves to be gentled, to be looked after, to be washed clean.

First time he's allowed it since she left. Allowed someone to see him like this—real Billy—to hold that kind of power over him. First time he's trusted someone in— First time he's—

At one point, Billy just grabs the guy up and kisses him, whispers “Steve,” kisses him again. “Steve, Steve, Steve.” Punctuates his name with kisses. Like this is how important you are. Like this is how grateful I am. Goes back to crying, eyes closed now so he doesn’t have to witness the reaction to that pathetic shit. Those brown eyes seeing how much he fucking needs this. How much ammo he’s got over Billy now.

_Don’t screw me on this, Harrington. Please. Christ._

He punctuates Steve’s name with kisses. It’s what he does instead of saying thank you. It’s the best that he can do.

By the time Steve’s working shampoo into his hair, Billy’s all cried out. Just stands there, eyes closed, as Steve’s fingers run over his scalp in tingling waves.

“Gonna rinse you off,” Steve says after a while. After too long to count as just cleaning.

Billy doesn’t open his eyes. He just nods. Realizes he smells just like Steve now. Just breathes it in.

And when they’re out, when it’s time to go to bed, Billy grabs Steve’s wrist as he makes to leave the room. 

It’s what he does instead of asking Steve to stay. It’s the best that he can do.

Steve goes to make his way over to the bed, but Billy cuts him off, stops him with a soft hand on his chest. He rests that hand on Steve’s shoulder as he steps closer. Closing the gap to inches. He bends his neck to rest his forehead against Steve’s. Takes two steadying breaths there before he lets the towel drop. Picks Steve’s hands up and places one on his ass, brings the other up to his mouth and sucks in the thumb, eyeing Steve as he does it, swirls Steve’s thick thumb with his tongue, then drags the pad between his teeth on the way out before giving it a light kiss.

It’s what he does instead of asking Steve to keep taking care of him. It’s the best that he can do.

Steve sucks in a breath like he’d forgotten it was necessary for a bit there.

“Is this some weird payback thing? Because—”

Billy shakes his head, feeling just a little bit shy. Shy. Who’d’ve fucking thought.

“Okay,” Steve says after a scrutinizing gaze. “What do you want me to do?” That dead-serious softness again.

Billy walks over to the bed and crawls up it, pulls up a pillow, lays over it so that his ass is on display, open between his wide-spread knees. Might as well just fucking give it all; already so fucking raw. Might as well.

Here you go. Take it. Billy finds Steve’s eyes.

“I want you to make me beg like you said,“ he says, quiet. “You’re a rich boy. Probably like to jerk off in style. You got any lube?”

“Vaseline?”

“Yeah. Go get that.”

While he’s lying there on the pillow waiting, when Steve’s running footsteps fade, his dick begs to lean into the friction. He keeps his hips from rocking. Wanted this. Even when he couldn’t want it. When he couldn’t even fucking admit it to himself. Wanted this for so fucking long. Long as he’d wanted Steve. Long as he’d wanted to fuck the guy into the floor. And maybe he’d even wanted this more, with some quiet part of himself. Can’t keep the images from coming, at any rate. All his buried fantasies wrapping him up like some kind of security blanket. All safe and warm and Steve inside of him. Taking care of him. Fucking caring about— Can’t stop thinking about it. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long.

Steve shucks out of his clothes on the way to the bed, tossing the jar of lube onto the mattress to free up his hands. Then Billy’s looking as best he can. Watching with waiting eyes as Steve crawls over the bed to him.

Yeah, that’s right. Come the fuck here.

And Steve’s on his knees behind him. Billy lets out a breath as Steve’s hand rests in the dip just above his ass. That breath catches back in when a greased-up finger trails down his crack.

“Sorry,” Steve huffs. Sounds so ready. Billy looks back over his shoulder. Reaches back and puts a hand around Steve’s dick, suddenly needing to feel it there. Feel what he’s doing to it.

“Don’t fucking apologize.”

“Billy,” Steve says, almost a whisper. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

And he kisses Billy’s back after he says it. Moans at the squeeze Billy gives before letting go and Jesus Christ, Billy might just cry again. Steve’s breath blooms out like fire over his back. Just bearable. His chest is banked coals, hovering over.

“One finger,” Billy says. Takes a full breath. “Real slow. Lots of lube. You’ll figure it out.”

And Steve’s finger is right there, right at Billy’s entrance. Slicked up and knocking to get in.

When it slides in, real slow and sweet, just as advertised, Billy forgets just why the fuck he’d denied himself this. God, he fucking missed it. Missed the connection. The slowly blooming thrill of taking someone into himself. And it’s so much better— With Steve it’s so much better, because— He gives in to one low moan.

It’s real.

“Perfect,” he pants.

When Steve starts moving his fully sheathed finger, massaging at the sides, flicking the tip here and there, stretching him nice and slow, Billy wishes he could see his face. Wants those fucking eyes now for some reason. Wants those pink fucking lips more.

“Ah—” he lets out when Steve finds his prostate. “Fucking. Two fingers. Right there.” Lets out a shaky breath as he feels the second finger lined up at the entrance. “Nice— nice and soft. Fucking good at that, aren’t you? Fucking real gentleman.”

Got him fucking babbling.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Steve says, voice back to confident. Back to his breathy directness. “I’ve got you.”

And Billy doesn’t even have to tell him when it’s time to put a third finger in. Doesn’t have to let him know when he’s ready for Steve’s dick. When he needs it like fucking now. Like two seconds ago.

Because it’s just there, slicked up between his cheeks and waiting and the guy’s been working over Billy’s prostate so fucking perfect that he isn’t even able to get his brain working fast enough to register that Steve’s fingers have slipped out before his dick is ready to come in. And then it does. Slow. Agonizingly slow and with Steve peppering his back with kisses as it goes. Whispering encouragements and endearments between fucks and shits and hisses at how tight it is. Panting against the skin on Billy’s back like he’s burning a message there in Morse code.

Then he’s in. In as far as he can get. Farther. And Billy forgets everything except how fucking close Steve is. How perfectly there. How the hot skin of Steve’s cock almost burns inside of him and that’s honestly— it’s fucking great, really. He’s hard and fucking leaking and trying his damnedest not to violate the pillow beneath him. And Steve just rests there till Billy aches with wanting him to move. His hips try to start up a rhythm but when the fuck had Steve’s hand got there? It’s squeezing into his hip, holding him still.

“Move,” he says.

“Mmm, maybe in a bit.” Fuckers voice is strained. Fighting his urge to just drive into Billy.

“Fucking why? Just move. Pl—” Oh. Oh that fucking-piece-of-shit.

“What was that?”

Harrington’s hips give the briefest twitch.

“Move. Now.”

“Sure thing,” Steve says, and pulls out so fucking slowly that Billy feels every shifting millimeter of his cock slide by as it goes.

“Fuuuuuck—fuck you, oh fuck you.”

And that cock is coming right back in, just as goddamn slow.

Out.

In. Grinding him into the pillow just long enough to ache.

Out.

“Please,” Billy whispers. “Please please please oh fuck you just please.”

Just the tip in him now. Just sitting there.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Fuck me. Just fucking fuck me already, Harrington, please. Swear to fucking god I’m gonna fucking strangle you.”

And the sonovabitch bends down to sigh in Billy’s ear.

“Promises, promises.”

As he drives back in. Hard. And a shocked breath gets knocked out of Billy’s chest.

“Oh thank fucking God,” Billy moans as Steve pulls quick out just to pound in again. And again. And that’s the last he bothers with talking.

But then Steve’s stopped again. And it takes a moment to register the emptiness of Steve’s cock slipping fully out. And by the time he catches up, he’s been flipped, dizzy, onto his back. Is staring up into these big brown eyes. Fucking beautiful. And Steve’s working his way back in. 

When they’re as close as they can be again, Steve fully inside, he breathes one broken breath across Billy’s lips, singeing them with its heat, and goes in for a blistering kiss.

And maybe then Billy makes this needy little noise that he’ll never fucking admit to later. Maybe.

And maybe he kisses the bastard back. Rakes his blunt nails in trying to pull Steve even closer. Trying to share the same space.

And when Steve starts moving again, slow and sweet and everything he promised, starts working him up on a low simmer till he’s bubbling over, fucking near dying again as he cums between them, as he feels Steve following, filling him up, maybe a few more tears do fall. Maybe. Because Billy can’t remember a time when everything had felt this fucking perfect. Monsters and all. This fucking good and right and safe.

But Billy’d kick anyone’s ass if they called him out on it tomorrow.

Better fucking believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish


	15. Paying Off the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I love writing this.
> 
> Love hearing from all of you, too! Let me know what you liked!

The kids are over.

They’ve stolen Steve.

What else is new?

Billy’s sullenly accepted his fate as an outsider, used to it now. Cast as the goddamn damsel in distress. As untrustworthy. Bugged. He’d retreated to the porch after they disappeared off into the house without him, tail between his legs and his hackles up.

Intrepid little fuckers and their experiments. Fucking stupid anyway.

Now he’s found some entertainment to brighten his mood. Flicks his cigarette. The lady across the street keeps eyeballing him like he can’t fucking see her doin it. All disapproving. And he’s amusing himself staring right on back. Lets out a long gust of smoke and resists the urge to jump up and flash her his pasty white ass.

Eyeball this, Lady.

Throws her a salute instead, a casual wink twinkling above his wolf’s grin. And it’s got her literally clutching her pearls. Grabbing up the package she’d been pretending to look for going on two minutes now while she spied and huffing off inside her big fancy fucking house with a look like well, I never.

Billy chuckles out another stream of blessed smoke, shirtless and accumulating snowflakes on his shoulders. They don’t even bother to melt when they touch his skin anymore. The huge trees in the front yard are heavy, branches iced with the latest snowfall, and it strikes him as funny that if he bothers sitting around out here long enough, still enough, he’ll be able to just fade right into the scenery. Become a goddamn snowman like in some cartoon. He scrunches some of the white powder up between his bare toes. Drops it. Misses the sand back in Cali.

He really needs to get some more clothes. It’s been a week since he’d died messy. A week of not much else besides borrowed pajama pants. And he’s fucking sick of walking around like some kind of stay-at-home stripper.

He misses jeans. Steve’s don’t fit. Barely fit Steve, now that he thinks of it. And now he’s definitely thinking of it. Yup.

He absently eyes the Camaro where it sits in the driveway, clean because he’d just brushed it down. Looks bluer than it usually does, set off against the envious monochrome sky. He’s been looking at it for a while now. Just taking it in. Storing up memories.

The bittersweet kind.

He’s about ready to snuff his cigarette when Jonathan’s shitty old LTD rolls up and blocks the view of his car. Billy flicks the smoldering butt off into a snow pile and gets up, stretching.

“Jonathan. As I live and breathe. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your girl attached at the hip,” he says as Jonathan’s closing door echoes across the still morning. “You two finally save up for that operation?”

“Billy,” Jonathan nods, ignoring the jab. Asshole. He makes his way up the walk Billy’d shoveled early this morning after seeing the maid’s footprints plowing up to the door the day before. Kept him busy. Busy while Steve slept in till like seven every morning, all peaceful, while Billy woke up at four and was left to wander the empty fucking house alone.

Or resort to fucking cuddling. Wasn’t that desperate yet.

He tried hard not to clean for her during those empty hours. Didn’t want her out of a job. Sometimes he left things out wondering what she’d think when she found them. A flower made from a dollar bill. A paper crane. A star smeared in the fog of the bathroom mirror.

He’d yet to actually catch a glimpse of Harrington’s maid around the house. Of course, it’s so goddamn big that she could be in there now and he wouldn’t fucking know. 

He’d seen the workman come and go to fix everything up to brand-new. Up to the Harrington standard. Heard the call Steve had made to the folks with some beautiful bullshit explanation about a tree falling in a storm. They barely questioned. Didn’t really care.

Didn’t even ask if Steve was okay.

Which he wasn’t. Isn’t.

“They’re all still down in the basement,” Billy says, gesturing back at the house. “Doing whatever the fuck they do down there. Probably won’t be done for a while.”

Jonathan nods, just stands there awkwardly. Billy looks over the guy’s tense shoulder at the flash of perfect sky blue. At the Camaro.

“You wanna go for a ride?” he asks, as if he doesn’t really care. “Kill some time?”

Jonathan squints at Billy, confused.

And he almost bails on the plan. Jesus, look at what he’s come to. Recruiting Jonathan-kicked-puppy-Byers for a jailbreak. For a joyride. 

This goddamn life.

“Yeah yeah yeah, I know, alright? I’m an asshole,” Billy says, knowing what’s coming. “Just fucking took a shot at you. Why would you go anywhere with me, right? It’s what you’re thinking.” Billy waves his hand in Jonathan’s direction, up and down like, it’s pretty fucking obvious I’m right from the way you’re standing there squinting, Pal. 

“But,” he goes on, “in my defense, I’m an asshole to everyone. It’s not like—not like I single you out special or anything, okay? I’m all about equal opportunity.”

He kicks at the snow. Gets to the deal. To the pitch.

“Look, I’m going fucking crazy trapped here, and—”

“Right,” Jonathan cuts in before Billy can finish. “I get that. But—” 

“— _and_ ,” Billy continues, glaring, “if you go with me, I’ll lay off your precious little Nancy. Scout’s honor.”

He holds up three fingers solemnly. Tries not to smile.

Jonathan studies Billy for a while. Billy notices he’s got a good pile of snow going now on one shoulder and drops his fucking scout sign to brush the frosting to the ground.

“Why not just go alone?” Jonathan asks, skeptical.

“Because,” Billy says, picking his cigarette pack up off the porch before it’s buried and shaking off the snow before it melts down and sogs the cardboard. “Everyone’s hell-bent on me getting better, that’s why. If I go running off alone, that ain’t exactly very fucking likely to happen.”

He flicks his tongue out to lap a flake of snow from his lip.

“Maybe because,” he says, stuffing the pack and lighter in a saggy fucking pocket so his waistband rides down on one side. “I’d rather not spend the rest of my short fucking life possessed, trying to kill a bunch of idiot kids.”

He huffs.

“Or, it could just be because,” he says. “I fucking can’t stand silence.”

Billy shrugs.

“Take your pick. Just goddamn go with me already.”

But Jonathan just stands there. Stares. Mind visibly working behind his black eyes. After a while there’s a barely perceptible nod.

Billy resists the urge to fist pump.

“Go put a shirt on and I’m in,” Jonathan says.

Billy just laughs.

He even ignores Jonathan’s look, his puff of incredulity and shaking head when Billy walks back out of the house in one of Steve’s fucking ridiculous polos, still bareoot. He even lets Jonathan turn on the heat when they hop into the Camaro. Notices when Jonathan’s coat rides up his arm in the stretch to reach the dials. Notices how he’s too fucking quick to smooth it back down around his wrist. Closes up. Fucker’s not quick enough that Billy didn’t see what the rush was all about. No, he saw. But Billy only pops into reverse and twists around to back out of Harrington’s long fucking driveway, not saying a word.

Not till he’d been driving for a while.

“You and Will have the same dad?”

“Yeah.”

A quick glance tells Billy Jonathan’s gotten real interested in the glovebox panel all of a sudden.

“He still around?”

“Why?” Now Jonathan’s looking, and his eyes are hard. Warning.

“Because those burns on your arm look old, that’s why,” Billy says, joyfully ignoring any warning from the guy. “And I was fucking curious. And your mom doesn’t exactly seem the type.”

But she does seem a little too practiced at the whole overprotective gig. Like she’d been doin it for years before the goddamn monsters came and took her son. So Billy wondered, is all.

Billy drums out a beat on the steering wheel, easing around the slippery curves, gunning it on the straightaways.

“Now, my old man doesn’t smoke,” he says, after a while. “But I’ve got those burns topped, easy.” He cracks the window just a bit, sweating and miserable in the inferno blasting from the vents. “One time for instance, when I was eleven, Neil got real creative with this BB gun he’d bought me for Christmas.” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Swear to Christ I’m still finding those little fucking metal balls to this day.”

Then he waits. He’s got time. He just drives, memorizing the way the Camaro responds, the feel of the wheel under his hand, the smell of it.

“My dad took off a while ago with some…woman,” Jonathan says after a whole lot of thoughtful silence. “Was always more of a lying asshole than an abusive one, I guess. Not that he didn’t….” And he runs a hand absently over his arm. “It’s just, most of the time he was busy running some scam or another back when he was around. Still is, far as I know.” And he laughs, a sharp sound, strange. First time Billy’s ever heard him just out and laugh. Fucking weird to witness, actually. 

“Once,” Jonathan says, smiling, “we ended up with a tiger in our shed for a week. He’d— just shoved in there, cage and all. No idea why. Mom found it. God, she freaked. But he was gone. She couldn’t even scream at him about it. So she ended up giving it all our meat for the month, everything out of the freezer, just trying to keep it fed. Because it wasn’t its goddamn fault, she said.” And he’s full-on laughing now. “She almost—” He cuts himself off with a laugh. “Almost killed him when he finally came back.”

He laughs harder, can’t get himself to stop sounds like. And Billy can’t help but laugh along with him. Just picturing it. Fucking tiger. What the hell?

When the laughter fades, Jonathan shakes his head, smiles wistfully.

“He could be so funny sometimes. Told the best stories.” And his eyes fall again. “But then he’d drink. And then you never knew what you’d get.” He rubs at his neck. “Had it out for Will. Especially when he drank. Called him a queer. Even when he was tiny. Six years old. And he’d try to fix it. Like it was something you could just—fix. Just train away. He just—wouldn’t let him be.”

Billy nods. Frowns. Same old shit, different family.

“Little fucker was lucky to have you then,” he offers, voice only a little too emphatic. And he gestures to Jonathan’s arm. “To take the worst of it for him.”

“I guess,” Jonathan says, sounding uncomfortable.

“Well, I can’t beat a fucking tiger in the shed,” Billy says, desperate to avoid any touchy-feely bullshit. “Broken bones, I’ve got. Even this neat little clicking sound when I open my jaw too far. But not once did my old man ever bring a fucking tiger into it.” And he laughs again. Gets Jonathan going again.

Maybe the guy is alright. Maybe. Maybe Billy’s kind of glad Byers showed up, was enough of a pushover to go along with a jailbreak.

Come along for a last ride.

“Think I’m gonna go home today,” Billy says, not making a big thing of it. “Get my shit. Sick of Steve’s pre-yuppie wardrobe. Maybe you can bring your car along for extra space?”

“Sure,” Jonathan says. Easy. Sits more comfortably in the seat. Yeah, the guy’s alright.

Billy turns on some tunes and Jonathan shakes his head again, slowly. But he doesn’t say anything else as they cruise on down the road. And Billy guesses that’s alright too.

He’s back in his own shirt, only a little stained, his jeans, his boots and jacket and earing, his armor, as he walks up the shoveled path to his front door, Jonathan idling at the curb.

Knows Neil’s home. Knows Max is safe with her friends. It’s better this way.

He swings open the door.

And when Billy emerges again, it’s with a hand across his bruised abdomen and a limp slowing his step. A cut on his right brow makes depth perception real hard to come by, blood seeping into his eyeball, stinging, forcing the lids closed. And the one single bag he’d managed to pack before Neil had got wind of him, come cannoning into his room demanding answers, is slung sloppy over his back. Most of his clothes are inside. All of his squirrelled away money. Everything he’d need, really.

All the other shit that had filled his room he’d never let himself get too attached to. Wouldn’t miss now. Why care about things, right? Why bother, when they’re so easy to take away?

He’d learned better a while ago.

“Where have you been?” Neil had bellowed, striding toward him.

“Off getting fucked up the ass,” Billy had replied, just waiting for the first blow to land.

Fucking worth it. He spits a stream of blood into the snowbank along the street, red he notices, a little bit relieved, before opening up Jonathan’s passenger door.

“You know what this means,” Neil had said, hauling Billy up after he’d been working him over for a good bit, propping him vertical with hard help from a nearby wall. “Your little friend back in California—"

“Yeah, you do what you have to there. Be my fucking guest.”

Took the punch to the jaw. Spat blood in Neil’s face after.

And Neil stumbled back, wiping the blood away furiously.

“You better not have anything, you little shit!”

And Billy advanced.

“Shut up.”

Neil stood taller, sensing the change in tone. Stared Billy down all fucking puffed up. All bravado. All show.

And Billy got right in the old bastard’s face. Not having to puff himself up one goddamn bit to get his point across. Stared right back. Poured all the hate and disappointment and spoiled affection he felt for the man right down into Neil’s fucking soul through those goddamn blue eyes that he’d passed down to Billy along with his fucking temper. Gag on it, Motherfucker. Gag on it. He meant it.

“Love you, Dad,” he said. And he meant that too.

That was the fucked up part.

Then Billy stepped back. Swung back. Laid his old man out with one well-gauged blow. 

He stared down at Neil’s sprawled figure afterward. Saw how old the guy had become. Almost fragile with that defeated, incredulous expression on his face. Like how did I get back down here? And Billy was sorry. Sure. But he wasn’t that fucking sorry. And after a beat, he threw the keys to the Camaro, Neil’s expensive attempt to make Billy into a real, red-blooded man, down onto the guy’s stunned chest. Cutting ties.

Getting out from under.

“If you touch Max, I’ll know,” Billy said then, finger pointed. Nudged Neil’s boot so that he paid real close attention to that finger in his face. “I’ll hear. And I’ll come back and I’ll fucking end you. You got that?”

Neil just stared, lost. Billy kicked his boot again, harder. Crouched down and looked him dead in the eye.

“Got it?”

Waited for a nod. Only when he finally got one it was this vacant thing, automatic.

It was good enough.

“Great.”

Then he stood. Turned. Walked away. Didn’t bother looking back.

Gentling himself into Jonathan’s car now, Billy sees the house’s front door open out of the corner of his eye. Sees Neil step out into the cold, still slack-jawed and staring. Still trying to process what had just happened.

“Can you just drive?” he asks. Needs this to be over.

And Jonathan doesn’t say a fucking word. Puts the car in gear and eases out into the street, pulls off on his way. Opens the glovebox without taking his eyes off the road and grabs up some napkins. Offers them. 

Yeah, the guy’s alright.

“So,” Billy says, wadding up the soaked napkins a bit later, straightening his leg slowly, grimacing, and cracking the window to toss the small red ball outside, fishing out the cigarette he’s about to have right fucking now thanks-so-much. His hands are shaking. The air that comes blowing in tastes crisp. “ _is_ your brother gay?”

Jonathan’s quiet for so long that Billy thinks he won’t answer. So he just inhales hit after hit of nicotine in the elongating silence between them. Sinks into the comfortable alive feeling that’s had him since he left Neil lying on the floor. The open feeling in his chest. He just exists there, not worried about anything, buzzing fully in the moment.

But in the end, Jonathan does answer. He nods. Billy catches it and looks over, flicking the now-dead butt out the window as well. He leaves that cracked. The breeze feels nice.

“I think he doesn’t know, yet,” Jonathan says. “Being kidnapped, possessed, it’s—he’s still young in a lot of ways because of it. But yeah. Yeah, I think he is.”

“How do you know?” Billy hugs the bag against his aching stomach, already feeling it start to heal in its squirming, unsettling way.

“Things I’ve seen. Things he’s said. Things he hasn’t. I pay attention,” Jonathan says. “I watch people.”

Billy nods. Yeah, Jonathan had figured him out a while ago. God, that day at Nancy’s. Had him feeling like he was under a microscope. Feeling exposed. Made him make a fool outta himself trying to get his confidence back. Isn’t that why Billy had hated the guy so much? Made sense he knew his brother better than the kid knew himself.

Billy swallows.

“Me and your kid brother have way too fucking much in common.”

“Tell me about it,” Jonathan says. And when Billy looks over, he catches a quickly suppressed grin.

Asshole.

By the time they make it back to Steve’s, Billy is healed up like he’d never been beaten. One quick rinse later and even the blood is gone.

So when the kids all flood up the stairs, they find him toweled off and lounging on the couch like he’d been there all along, some pretentious antique book he couldn’t fucking get into in hand. Jonathan looks up from the couch opposite where he’d been fully fucking engrossed in his. The group stops a safe distance away, just staring.

“Fucking help you?” Billy asks, staring back, eyebrow up.

“What is it?” Jonathan asks, throwing Billy a scolding look.

Steve saunters up, hands in his pockets, apparently not on board with the running.

“Do it,” he says, when he reaches the group.

And Billy’s body seizes. Muscles lock up and start twitching, rigid. Everything burns. Sizzles. His thoughts are scrambled. Can’t think. But he fights for coherence. And he’s just barely able to focus enough to register that Max is missing from the group, her face not there among those staring down at him where he’s slid, twitching to the ground, before darkness rears up high above him and comes falling down, a great night wave crashing over him.

Dragging him under.

Spinning him into the warm black once again.

Where something is waiting.

Waiting for him.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good - Muse


	16. Wake the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, I've learned so much science for this fic. I'm just so hardcore into it it's hilarious. Like, you can't even tell the actual pains from what I wrote here, but trust me, this shit is legit.
> 
> Been slaving over a hot computer for you so I didn't leave you hanging too long, too. You know I've got you.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! And then comment. I mean, fuck it you're at the end of the page anyway at that point, right? Why not? 
> 
> Hope to hear from you!

SQUEAK

Billy pulls his face up out of the water to find the noise.

Except it isn’t fucking water. It’s some dark liquid that doesn’t cling to his skin like it should. That leaves him dry where he touches it, like what he’s made of and what it’s made of can’t mix. Are fundamentally different. He lays there, held up by God knows what, just one fucking meaningless speck of light in the dark. 

Below his face lies a fathomless depth. He can’t see that depth—it’s too dark to see much of anything here—but he can sure as fuck feel it. Feel how it drops out under him where he lays on its fragile skin like a skater slipped out over thin clear ice. Afraid to move. Just hoping it holds.

And he can feel that there is something down there in the black. He can feel it down there, waiting. Feel the ominous fucking threat of it as it watches to see what will happen.

Not that he’s alone up above.

The cow-print rat squeaks again and he watches it sniff at the bars of its cage, maybe trying to catch his scent. Then it stands on its hind legs, cleaning its paws, swiping them over the sleek fur of its face.

Glad someone’s okay with all this.

A giant meaty insect leg comes slicing down in the distance, making Billy jump as a monster, _the_ monster, takes a long step. SPLOSH. And Billy watches the rat cage rise and fall, the animal’s calm utterly breaking into squeals of terror. He closes his eyes when the wave comes for him, when it’s his turn to be jostled, rising up, going airborne for a heart stopping moment before falling again, clinging to the surface of the inky liquid void, fingers scrabbling for purchase they don’t find. The waves keep coming with every booming step. The dance repeats.

Shit shit shit shit.

His eyes won’t open. This is where the fucking monster finds him, right? This is the end. Gotta be. And he can’t even force himself to look. Not this time.

But he isn’t torn apart. Nothing happens. And after a whole lot of fucking nothing happens for long enough, it kind of ruins the suspense. Has the dread bleeding slowly off till Billy can stand to open one eye, then another. Look to see what the meatloaf monster—fucking Mind Flayer or whatever—is doing.

The thing’s still stomping around; bouncing Billy around like someone keeps fucking jumping on the water bed he’s trying to catch a nap on. But it never stomps any nearer. It never moves more than thirty feet one way or another. Like it’s blocked in by walls or something. Like it’s pacing.

Like this is the echo of the thing in the warehouse and back in the real world it’s still there.

It roars, and the sound seems muted and dead in this fucking nowhere place. It looks directly at him. Turns away. Searching and pissed and can’t it see him? Can’t it fucking just tell that he’s here? Last he knew it held his fucking puppet strings. It knew what he knew. Knew where he was. Isn’t that why he’s spent his time perpetually kicked out of the fucking club house? What the fuck is going on now?

He gets up on his feet, fighting for balance, forgetting to be afraid of the dark depths and the thing below. It can fucking hop in line. He walks up to the rat’s cage and picks it up by the handle. Stops it bouncing and the rat gradually calms. Can’t just leave the little fucker in the dark all alone, can he? He’s not a goddamn monster. Even if he is. 

He walks on, moving towards the Mind Flayer and the little temper tantrum it’s having. Needing to push closer. Compelled to see it better.

Because he pushes his luck. It’s what he does. Ain’t about to stop now. 

Anyways, he’s curious. What the fuck is it doin over there? What pissed it off?

He walks closer. Closer. Balancing wave to wave. The meat monster continues to look right through him. But as he nears, he sees that it’s not alone. It’s surrounded.

So that’s where it’s keeping them….

“Hey!” he yells when he gets so close that there’s no way it doesn’t fucking see him. “What, you ignoring me now?” 

And maybe it is. Because it still pays him no attention. Stomps on.

The flayed surrounding it, on the other hand, all turn to look at him as one. _They_ see him. Hear him. And as they do the giant fucking meat monster freezes mid-stomp. It turns sickeningly quickly, suddenly facing his way, and its head moves this way and that. Searching.

And when it finally finds him, looks at him full-on, all his bravado dries right the fuck up.

He’s dead. Again.

Or not. 

All of a sudden he doesn’t know what to expect, is being wrenched back by a hard tug to his shirt. Falls, disoriented, tripping over nothing. But he doesn’t land. When he opens his eyes again he’s met with Steve’s tall-ass fucking living room ceiling. With a comfy couch under his back. With that El girl’s bloody nose hovering over him, Jesus Christ, and her hand gripping his shirt at the back of the neck. 

Once she backs off, thank God, he cranes his head around, looking, searching… and ha. Fucking knew it.

“My man,” Billy says to the little rat in a cage on the end table. Sits up. Glares at the rest of the fuckers surrounding him. “What the fuck did you do to me and who the fuck did it?”

Max steps forward, not intimidated even a little. “I juiced your brain,” she says. She makes a zipping electric noise. “ZZZP.” Smiles.

Billy opens his mouth, not knowing what’s gonna come out.

“Shut up,” she preempts. “It was for your own good.”

She doesn’t look like she fucking minded frying him much, though, does she, the little fucking traitor.

“Explain. Right fucking now.” He rubs his sore jaw. His ears are ringing and there’s a taste in his mouth like a machine running too hot. Max looks to Dustin. Dustin points to the rat, eyes wide.

“We tested it first. It was totally safe!”

Billy looks at the rat who starts rolling a little ball around. Adorable little bastard.

“What, you zapped _him_ first? Not fucking helping your case.”

The pale kid, starts with M, steps forward. Right. Mike.

“We just severed the Mind Flayer’s connection to you. You’re welcome.”

Little sonova—

But Billy thinks back to the nowhere place. To its anger, its inability to see him.

“Well that fuckin explains that,” he says instead of blowing up on the kid. Which he would deserve, smug little— The kids all throw him questioning looks. He ignores those looks because honestly, fuck them right now. Turns to El. 

“Did you just yank me outta that place?”

“Yes.”

“So it saw you then—coming up behind. That’s what it was looking at, there at the end. You.”

She frowns, eyes troubled. Nods slowly.

“Yes,” she says, quiet.

“What are you?” 

He needs to know. Can’t forget the display he saw when the rat monster attacked. The feeling radiating off that giant fucking monster right when it’d found him. Found her. It’d been afraid. Afraid and furious.

He knows the look when he sees it.

“Human,” She says, shrugging. “More or less.”

“She’s just got psionic abilities,” Mike says, stepping to her side. “Like Carrie.”

El shakes her head. Looks at Billie. “Not like Carrie.” Looks back to Mike. “Stupid.”

“Hey!” Mike protests.

“Umm, nice one?” Max says. 

El smiles.

Jesus wept. Billy snaps his fingers to get everyone’s attention. Points to Mike. 

“You. So it can’t take me over again, now? That what you’re saying?”

And Dustin steps forward all excited, Will close behind. 

“That’s the genius part,” he says, enthusiasm bubbling over. “We trapped one of the Mind Flayer’s rats, see, and found out it was creating a magnetic field! So after a bunch of experiments—” Billy looks to the poor rat again, a newfound respect growing. “—we figured out that the Mind Flayer must be sending its brainwaves to you and the rest of the hive through the air, using something like resonant inductive coupling.” He takes a long breath. 

“Just like a Tesla coil!” him and Will say together, smiling and high fiving. 

“And once we knew that,” Dustin goes on, “all we needed to do was—”

“Yeah, I’m gonna cut you off right there,” Billy says, raising a hand, completely out of patience. Dustin’s mouth stumbles to a halt. “That was more of a yes or no type of question.”

“We don’t know!” Dustin and Will say together again, beaming. 

“But probably not,” Will says. “We put you on a whole new frequency!”

“With the brain zapping?” Billy asks, knowing he shouldn’t.

“Yup,” Will nods.

“ZZZP,” Max makes the noise again, deadpan, holding up some freaky torture-looking piece of machinery.

“Mr. Clarke told us how to make it,” Lucas says at Max’s side. “It’s basically a homemade version of an ECT machine like they’d use in shock therapy.” Then his eyes widen and he raises his hands. “And this totally wasn’t my idea, by the way. I just wanna make that nice and clear.”

Billy snorts absently, still hung up on the part where he’s free. And he thought he’d felt good after leaving his house earlier.

He hadn’t known.

“Chill, kid, you’re fine,” he says, staring off into space, a little shell-shocked.

He looks to Max, forcing himself back into the moment.

“Your boyfriend always this much of a spaz?”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t have a comeback. Hah. Then Billy sees Steve, who’s just standing there, quiet, at the back.

“You,” he points at Steve now. “Need to have a little chat with you alone.”

And he’s got actual butterflies in his stomach thinking about what he wants to do to the guy. He’s thrumming. Trying to keep it together. Be cool.

Wants to fucking whoop and bounce around the goddamn room breaking shit. Wants to kiss Steve breathless right fucking now. Wants to do a backflip. Can he still do a fucking backflip?

“But it wasn’t his fault—” Dustin says, worried. And before Billy can even open his mouth—

“I have to take the kids home.”

Steve’s face is blank. Has Billy sinking, frowning. Rains all over his parade a little fucking bit, honestly. What’s with the monotone? What the fuck? But he doesn’t react. Not now.

“Fine. Later.”

And Steve only nods. Ushers the kids to the door.

Think the fucker would be celebrating. His little plan worked, after all.

Fuck it. He’s free.

Billy ignores their gathering of stuff, their noisy exodus. As soon as he’s alone he bounces up and off the couch cushion to vault over the back, then strolls on over to the shiny new sliding glass door, throwing it wide, liking the way it glides so easy along its track.

A chitter from behind has him remembering his buddy, doubling back to pick up the cage before stepping out into the cold, blue-lit dark. The fucking pool is still heated. Still lit up. He sets the cage down on a short, frosted table and plops himself onto a snow-padded deck chair.

He still can’t feel the fucking cold. The rat seems pretty comfy, too.

Well, can’t fucking win em all, eh little dude?

“Now what the hell am I gonna call you?”

He still hasn’t thought of a name when he hears Steve come back.

“Oh, come on!” Steve yells from the entrance. “It’s freezing in here, Man! Couldn’t slide the goddamn door shut?”

Well, shit. Oops.

“Yeah,” Billy calls out sarcastically, swinging his legs around to sit up and gesturing toward the pool as Steve steps into the door frame, “because we’re all about saving energy over here.”

Steve just slides the door shut. Shutting Billy out.

“What the fuck?” He looks at the rat. “Shouldn’t I be pissed at him?” Picks up the cage and tromps over to slide the door wide again. Doesn’t bother to shut it. Again. Just stomps snow through the house looking for Harrington.

He finds the guy on his own bed, just starfished out with one arm flung over his face.

“What?” he asks, shutting the door. “What’s fucking wrong?”

Sets the cage down on the dresser and climbs into the bed.

“Seriously,” he says, voice softer, prying Steve’s arm away and finding his eyes. “What?”

“You know, when I was…11,” Steve says, raising the hand Billy had touched a foot above his face and studying the back. “Was it that long ago? Damn.” He drops the hand on his chest. “I entered this talent show. I was gonna play the piano.” Comes out mocking. Mocking himself. “Was thinking about that a lot today.”

Billy lies down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Doesn’t speak. Knows more is coming.

“I didn’t know how to play really, couldn’t read music even, so I just—picked this one song, Für Elise, just listened to the music on mom's record over and over, found the notes on the piano, practiced and practiced and practiced while her and dad were gone. Because Mom, she loves classical music.” Steve’s voice is still dead. Billy turns his head and just watches his profile, listening, not knowing what to do. Totally thrown off.

Steve looks over and stares at Billy for a few seconds, then goes back to studying the ceiling.

“And because she always said I had her long fingers. Always wanted me to learn to play, like her.”

He picks up his hand again, this time studying his palm.

“I learned that goddamn song by heart. Told her when the show was. And she told me—” and now his voice grows hard. “She fucking told me she’d be there—she’d come home and watch me play. She promised.”

Steve makes this little clicking noise. This snapping noise with his mouth.

“And when she didn’t, I was just—”

His hand goes to his throat.

“That was the first time I ever wanted to die. Never even thought about it before then. Death. I mean, shit, up until I was eight and she found out that dad had been sleeping around in damn near every country he visited, I’d never even been lonely, I don’t think. She’d always been there.” 

He curls his fingers, brushes his curled fingers across his lips thoughtfully. Tears spill over the corner of his eye and slide down over his temple, get lost in his hair.

“After she knew, she never was. Home. Here. Always tagging along after _him_. And I guess I just learned how to be lonely, you know? And I was okay at it. But then I got this fucking idea into my head. This song. And all I’d asked of her was one day. Hell, one hour. Just to see her face when I played it for her. One stupid fucking show. Because I thought if I worked hard enough, she’d see how good I was and maybe—maybe she’d want to stay. Fuck,” he says, covers his eyes. “I was 11, okay? Real fuckin idiot.”

He presses his fingers into a fist. Presses the fist to his mouth. Hard. Then it just falls away, limp, at his side.

“I was gonna kill myself that night.” He whispers. Just says it like it's nothing important. Like no big deal. “It had just—what was the point, you know?" He shrugs. "Didn’t end up doing it, though," he goes on. "Can’t remember why. What happened. I still can’t….”

He looks right at Billy and a tear slips over the bridge of his nose. Drips to the mattress.

“All I know is that instead, I ended up going to that fucking show and I smiled and hammed it up and took a big ol’ bow, like it was all this big—joke. Like I was fine. And that’s the day I first hung out with Tommy and Carol. We all came back to my big empty house afterwards and I snuck liquor out of dad’s cabinet for them, because they asked. I said some of their friends could come over too, because they asked. And I picked up the next day and I was fucking happy about it. Couldn’t stop smiling.”

He smiles now. And it goddamn near breaks Billy’s heart. Fucking guy.

“So,” Steve says, still smiling that goddamn gut-wrenching smile, “that’s what you were trying so hard to steal, when you first got here. That’s—that’s all King Steve ever really was. Acting above it all. Letting them use me because it was a lot fucking better than— And the funny thing is, I’d already thrown it away. I didn’t even have it to steal. Because I thought I’d found something better. But I—well, that fell through too. Like everything always does. And without it—without—how it is now, when…”

Billy grabs up Steve’s far shoulder, pulls him onto his side, tugs him close and wraps an arm around him, fist clenched and shaking but hidden behind Steve’s back. Made safe, kept busy keeping Steve close.

Steve doesn’t start sobbing at the contact. Just sits there. Still. Breathing.

“Now you’re out of this goddamn horror show,” he says into Billy’s shoulder in that same monotone. “You’re free. You don’t have to—don't need us. Need me, anymore, you.... You don't. But I just—I just don’t want you to go,” Steve whispers. “Okay? I just want you to stay. So will you just—”

Billy forces his fist to loosen. His face to soften from the murderous fucking expression he’d absolutely been wearing. He makes space enough to see, then he brushes the guy’s floppy fucking bangs back from his perfect pale face. No more bruises.

“Well,” Billy says, thankful that the anger isn’t showing up in his voice.

He leans down and nips Steve’s lip, pausing to make sure he can manage more words.

“That’s your mistake, isn’t it? Thinking I’m fucking going somewhere.” Forces on a grin. Brushes his lips back and forth over Steve’s. “What, me? Give up living off kid’s cereal, babysitting buncha brats, chasing fucking monsters?”

Steve stays silent. His face stays that dead fucking thing that’s starting to scare the shit out of Billy and Billy pauses, swallows, after a moment lets his face go serious like it’s wanted to all along. Stop fucking around with the guy. Stop it. He doesn’t need that shit right now.

“Hey,” he says. Can’t leave it at that bullshit answer. Can’t leave that expression on Steve’s face. “I’m staying.”  
He takes a breath. Fuck it. Just lets his mouth go. Says what he wants to say and doesn’t edit.

“Need you to understand that I fucking care, alright? That I’m not just— Listen, I’m here because I want to be here with _you_. Not like those ba—” 

He stops himself. Tommy, who he’d killed, may well have been a bastard, but Billy can’t call him out on it now. Not remembering that scream. Not to fucking Steve, who _knows_ he’d killed the guy and hasn’t even mentioned it so far for fear of hurting _Billy’s_ feelings. No. Don’t be a fucking asshole. Leave Tommy out of it.

“I just,” Billy says, winding down. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here till you kick me out, okay?”

Then he goes in for a kiss. Wake the fuck up, Steve. Long and deep and slow, and finally Steve is pushing his face up into it like he can’t get enough. Like he’s alive. So he kisses Steve a while longer, before he backs off real slow, smiling, then pops up off the bed with a bounce.

“And right now you’re coming to drink a fuckin beer with me.”

“Seriously?” Steve says, still laying there, incredulous, wiping his eyes with his sleeve pulled down over his palm, looking at Billy like Billy’s crazy and Steve maybe likes it, but he sure as hell isn’t gonna show it. And Billy almost cries he’s so relieved that fucking dead look is gone. 

“Now?” Steve says.

Billy hops back on the bed. Straddles Steve on all fours. Bounces.

“Yes now. We’re celebrating my goddamn freedom.” Bounces again. “Fucking get up, Stevie. I mean it.” Keeps bouncing.

And Steve busts out in a laugh, just pinballing around between Billy’s arms. And Billy fucking loves it. Is getting a little bit fucking excited again just hearing it.

“Jesus alright, alright, just—stop,” Steve laughs, leans up to sit and Billy rocks back off the bed to let him. Waits for him as he scoots to the side and stands up.

“How did you get beer, anyway?” Steve asks as they walk out of the room, Billy carrying the rat’s cage.

“The maid. I left out a twenty I swiped from your wallet one morning and a note asking if she’d buy me a case and keep the change.” He sets the cage down on the kitchen counter. Waits till Steve comes back scowling from closing the sliding door again. “Anyway, there was a case sitting there the next morning. Guess she likes me.”

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Steve says, plopping down on a stool at the counter. “Just—anything about you, really. You’ve never even fucking met her. How—”

“I’m me, Princess.” Billy says, pulling out two cold beers from the fridge and popping the tops, lifting his eyebrows suggestively and throwing on a grin. “I mean, guess she must have seen me at some point roaming around shirtless like your kept fucking boy. Guess she just couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And he’s humble too, ladies and gentlemen.”

Billy hands Steve a can. Raises his for a toast.

“To freedom,” he says, clinking his drink with Steve’s and downing one glorious pull. His eyes land on the cage and inspiration strikes.

“And to my new little bud, Franklin.” He clinks his can gently against the cage and the rat doesn’t even pay attention. Clinks Steve’s can and takes another pull.

When Steve is done drinking the toast, Billy can’t contain his excited fucking honest-to-God happiness anymore. Snatches away Steve’s beer and CLUNK’s both drinks down hard on the counter. Picks Steve up and starts spinning, just laughing his ass off at Steve’s sputtered “What the fuck?!”

He plunks Steve down and lays a kiss on him. Pulls away grinning.

“Go turn on some tunes, huh? This party is way too goddamn quiet.”

Then before Steve can go, Billy pulls him back in with a sudden burst of courage. “And Steve,” Billy says. Kisses the guy again. Keeps close and traps the whisper he frees between them. “Thanks.” he says. “Fucking thank you. Thank you.”

Because for some reason now he can finally say it.

And it really needs to be said.

Then as Steve pulls away with a smile and turns to go, he adds one more thing.

“Play any Wham! and you’re a fucking dead man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin


	17. The Air I Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think our boys are due one more nice little chat before life has them running for their lives again. But you know how their little chats tend to go. They're just so perfectly fucked up together and I love them so!
> 
> Enjoy the show!
> 
> Love hearing from you after. Let me know what you think.

Steve’s hair is too goddamn soft.

It’s sliding across Billy’s stomach every time the guy shifts his head and it’s driving him a little bit fucking crazy if he’s being completely honest, because it fucking tickles. But he endures it. Doesn’t say anything. Holds still and takes it as the price he has to pay to keep running his fingers through that hair. 

It’s too goddamn soft to stop touching.

They’re at that wound down end-of-the-party stage of drunk. Just sprawled out on the couch, musk from the joint they just smoked still skunking the air, the empty remains of the pillaged case of beer scattered on the floor around them, crumpled cans clanking against each other any time one of them gets up to piss.

Everything is pretty much alright. Steve is relaxed, just sprawled out with his head in Billy’s lap where Billy can pet at that soft fucking hair and listen to the guy’s babbling.

Yeah. It's pretty nice.

Except for the fact that Steve’s just started mooning over Rob Lowe. And okay, fuck you very much, Buddy. Way to mangle the calm.

“Get up.”

“Wha?” Steve says, breaking off mid-swoon over Rob Lowe’s fucking eyes. “Why?”

“Because, Pretty Boy, I need Time After Time to stop playing ten seconds ago. Rob fucking Lowe….”

“What? He’s hot. He looks like you.” Steve throws up his hands. “And Time After Time is a good goddamn song!”

It's his last attempt at a lazy protest before groaning and getting up anyway. “It’s not my fault I don’t have any of your music. Why haven’t you just gone home and grabbed some? I mean, Jesus. I'd've gone with you.”

Billy huffs out a laugh. All the shit happening, guess he’d forgot to mention a few things.

“Come on. Up,” Billy says, grabbing up Steve’s forearm and hauling his drunk ass off the couch. Almost losing balance and landing his own drunk ass on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

Steve’s trying to help and just making everything harder. Finally, _finally_ the guy’s standing. Billy tugs him in and catches him up.

“I’m dancing with you to this stupid-ass song. What’s it look like?”

Beer cans make way around their feet, adding a chaotic clanking rhythm to the beat.

“And I can’t just go get my music. Or anything else for that matter. Shit, he’s probably burned it all by now.”

“What? Why the hell would—” Steve stills for a moment before going back to his rocking. “Waaait,” he says, “your car—your car was missing. I noticed it when I came back from dropping the kids. Then I totally forgot because some asshole left the door open.” Steve creates enough space to glare at Billy again for the offense but keeps dancing. “So?” he says, expectantly. “What happened?”

Billy eyes Steve warily.

“Kind of expected you to yell at me for leaving in the first place.”

“Umm, okay, well hell, if you really want me to,” Steve says, eyebrow shooting up. ”I was just gonna go with being glad you didn’t get attacked or possessed but, I mean, I could clear my fucking schedule—”

Billy just laughs softly once. Kisses Steve quiet.

“I got out,” Billy says, smiling something small and genuine after he pulls away. “Told him I’d been busy taking it up the ass all week. Laid him out when that pissed him off. Told him I was gone.”

Doesn’t mention the beating he took before that. Likes the way Steve’s lookin at him too much to fuck it up with pity.

“Shit,” Steve says, looking impressed. Yeah. That look. Billy could get used to that look.

He shrugs though, suddenly embarrassed. It hadn’t been like that. He hadn’t earned that look.

“Broke his fucking heart, Steve,” Billy says, just standing there now, arms still draped around the guy loosely, the song long since changed to something upbeat and completely fucking inappropriate for a slow dance.

“When I threw the keys to the Camaro down—” He can’t find the words to explain. Grabs at the first thing he can think of to make Steve see. “You know in movies, when a married couple has that one last fight, that one they can’t come back from, and one of them throws the ring at the other one?” He glances into Steve’s eyes for a second, but can’t hold them. “That fucking stupid cliche scene kept flashing through my head as I was doing it. Something I’d seen in a shitty movie. But it was like that. The end. Like those fucking car keys were the symbol of all our bullshit and I’d given up on it. And I think he knew it too, because when I tossed those keys at him—”

Billy shrugs again. Doesn’t want to remember the broken thing, lying there on the floor, thing that used to be his dad.

“I’ve wondered why you let him…you know...hit you.”

“Let him?”

“Why you never hit back, I mean." Steve clarifies. "It’s not like you couldn’t stop him.”

“What, and lived on the street?” Billy says. “He couldn’t have lived with me after I'd done that. Wouldn't matter that I'm his kid, that I'm underage.” Billy knows that for a damn fact. “Not like I had anyo—anywhere fucking better lined up.”

Steve tenses under his hands.

“What? So now all of a sudden you do?” Steve asks, shoving himself away. “Now that you’re here living it up in my parent’s stupid goddamn mansion?”

God, this guy is exhausting sometimes.

Billy’s not in the mood. This shit ain’t happening again. He doesn’t have the patience to put up with it. He grips Steve’s arm hard and pulls the guy back into a forced hug. Ignores Steve’s pulling. His angry squirming.

“No, idiot,” he says, wishing he'd just said what he meant to in the first place. Feels Steve go still. Feels him listening.

Then he lets go. Steve doesn’t move, leaned up there against his chest, hand in a fist on his bare pec. Thought so.

“Already told you why I'm here.”

It’s quiet for a minute. Some fucking stupid song just blaring away unimportant in the background.

“Me?”

“Ding ding ding.”

More noisy quiet. Billy starts them rocking again, though the beat is all wrong, way too fast and synthy. Screw music, though. Plants a kiss on Steve’s temple. Not like they need it. Not like they’re really fucking dancing at this point.

“So where did you learn to fight, anyway?” Steve finally says, going along sluggishly with the rocking, like Billy, too drunk, stoned and tired to really dance. “I mean, you’re really good.”

“I’m alright.”

“No, you’re like, amazing.” Steve says, shaking his head. “No one’s ever beat me unconscious like you.”

He sputters into a laugh, trying to hold it in and failing, then he captures it again. Holds it silent. Billy can still feel the laughter buzzing inside the guy though, just dammed up under the surface.

“Yeah, well it’s not like you were really tryin.” Billy says. “You were full into that fight for all of two seconds. Even at the time I remember thinking it was like you wanted me to beat your ass.”

Steve snorts and it gets Billy going too. It’s too much.

The laughter wins for a while.

“But what if I do?” Steve says, quieting. “I mean it’s more than some lonely pathetic coping bullshit like I said it was before. It is that, but I mean—I fucking like it. Like, really like it. God, I was hard for a week after that fucking fight. Every time I looked at my reflection—”

Billy snorts again.

“Fucking Narcissist—yeah you would.”

“Fuck off,” Steve says. “No, it was you. Felt like I had your—fingerprints all over me or something. Like I was yours and everyone could see I was yours too, because you were still there, all the places you touched me.”

The room slips into something a little more serious. Heated and close. Billy huffs out a breath as Steve pulls suddenly into him, body pressing up tight, bonfire heat all down his front. Steve’s mouth rests in the crook of his neck, puffing hot.

And hadn’t he felt the same fucking way every time he’d seen those marks on Steve? Like Steve was his? Like his name was written all over the guy?

Hadn’t he looked at them and always needed a second after to catch his fucking breath because those marks were so goddamn beautiful? Powerful?

And Steve had kept fucking touching them. Like he knew what they meant, too. Like he liked what they meant.

“So, will you do it again?” Steve asks in that deadly soft bedroom voice Billy's beginning to fucking crave.

And Billy grinds farther into Steve, still seeing those beautiful bruises, dick just pressing in hard against any part of the guy, maybe moaning a little into Steve’s shoulder. Pulls back and lays his forehead on that same shoulder, hands on Steve’s upper arms just breathing, breathing, holding Steve at a distance so he can fucking focus enough to think. Really think about what Steve is asking.

“You asking me to fucking beat you?” he says, finally getting those neurons firing. “Cause—”

“No,” Steve says. “Better if I can fight. I’m asking you to fight me.”

“Same fucking difference, Stevie,” Billy says, pulling a bit further away from temptation. “I’m not exactly good at pulling punches, you know? And you’re not exactly Muhammad fuckin Ali in a fight.”

“I held my own.” Steve’s chest puffs a little and it's just so fucking cute.

“If I heard right, you managed to get your ass handed to you by Jonathan Byers before I showed up. You know? Mopey kid. Quiet. Real timid.”

“…I let him win.”

That so?

“Oh-ho-ho, I see,” Billy says, tilting his head with a smile and spreading his hands wide, like, well here we have it folks. “Should I be jealous?”

“Jesus,” Steve says, covering his eyes. “No. That was a whole other thing.”

“What? He’s not your type?” Billy asks with a shark’s grin. “I dunno, Stevie, I rode around with him for a while. He’s a quality guy. Does this cute little squinty thing when you piss him off.”

“Should _I_ be jealous?”

“Well yeah, if you don’t mind. It’s kinda fucking adorable.”

“Dick.” 

Steve surges forward to shove at Billy, maybe pick a fight, but Billy saw that shit comin, just moves aside last second, uses the guy’s own built up momentum and adds to it, shoving him forward so he’s stumbling, almost falling on his face.

“I take it back. You’re more a Patrick Swayze than a Rob Lowe.” Steve says, straightening up and walking back over. “You did that to me before. How do you—” Steve gasps. “Oh shit! Shit, that’s perfect!”

He walks up to Billy and bows, hands together. What the fucking—

“Teach me, Sensei.”

“You know, those kids are fucking ruining you.” 

Billy shakes his head slowly watching Steve rise again. Pats down his pocket for his pack of smokes. Steve smiles, plucks the very pack Billy’s lookin for out of his own pocket and takes one out for himself. Throws the pack Billy’s way. He catches it, knocks one out and lights it, tosses the lighter to Steve so he can light up too. Puts the pack safe away in his pocket. Watches Steve pocket the lighter. Returns to shaking his head slowly. Jesus fucking Christ, when had they developed this little gem of a routine?

“You say I can’t fight?” Steve says, taking a drag after. “Fine.” Smoke flows out with the word. “Teach me. That way I’ll learn and you can finally fucking hit me without feeling guilty about it.”

He comes even closer. Gets right up in Billy’s shit and steals the cigarette Billy’d been smoking. Trades out for his.

“Yours taste better,” he says, shrugging.

And when he takes a hit his tongue darts out to flick at his top lip before he exhales, those huge brown eyes just locked up on Billy the whole time.

Jesus.

Billy takes a hit off Steve’s smoke. Finds the ever-fucking-present wet spot on the filter. Thinks the same thing he always thinks—sloppy bastard. Fucking loves the feel of it against his lip.

Yeah Stevie. Yours do too.

Then Steve’s grabbing up Billy’s hand and leading him slowly back over to the couch, cans clanking once more as they near. The music has gone slow again, some light, airy voice that’s so quiet he can’t even make out words singing some sad fucking song. Doesn’t bother trying. Honestly, music is the last thing on his mind right now.

Billy’s shoved into sitting on the couch once they reach it and Steve climbs on top of him after, straddling his lap. He steals the cigarette from Billy and puts both out in the ashtray nearby. Grabs up Billy’s hand and places it on his neck. Closes it tight over. Leans forward, brushing his lips against Billy’s cheek. Licks them wet so they leave slick trails as he talks.

“Promises promises.” He whispers against Billy, bumping his forehead against that cheek, dragging it over like a goddamn needy cat and grinding his hips forward, once, into Billy’s stomach. He lets his head fall to Billy’s shoulder after. And those fucking words send Billy straight back to the last time they came out of that mouth.

And, _fuck_. 

“Time to pay up,” Steve says, breathy.

Billy shivers. Is about to take his hand away from that soft white neck when Steve backs up to sit nearer Billy’s knees; when Steve’s hand finds Billy’s dick through his jeans. And soon enough he has it woke up fully and more than interested, running his nails down along its outline, swiping his palm back up its length. The pressure builds as it fills. The pleasure-pain of its trapped state. Has Billy forgetting to move. To stop this. Even has him maybe tightening his grip on Steve’s neck a little, if only for some kind of purchase. His other hand clawing into the guy’s upper arm.

“Mmhm,” Steve encourages. “Like that.” The words hit Billy all soft and intense. They cut through the air, straight through Billy, headed straight for the dick. The dick that Steve is still touching, by the fucking way, rubbing gently now at the head of it, the friction definitely painful now and so goddamn motherfucking good.

Steve. Jesus. Fucking— 

“Don’t have to hit me,” Steve says. The word _tonight_ hangs in the air, unspoken. “But do this for me, Billy, okay? Do like you said for me.”

“You want me to—want me to choke you?” Billy manages, tying to make sure, only able to articulate the thought because Steve’s hand is giving him a break, working at his zipper now.

Steve kisses him when he says it. Moans into the kiss, this small little thing, this promise of more later, more if Billy just does like he said he would. Like he promised. Steve pulls away. His hand snakes down past Billy’s boxers, pulls Billy’s aching dick free.

“Please?”

Presses his other hand into Billy’s hand still wrapped loose around his neck, forcing it to close tighter.

“I want it. I want you.”

“Don’t— Billy says, swallowing and taking a breath, trying to find the slippery thought that gets away when Steve’s hand starts moving again, skin to skin now on his shaft. “Don’t want to—hurt you. Fuck—Steve.” Comes out on this fucking whine. God, the things this motherfucker brings out in him.

“Doesn’t have to be—be hard. Mmm just—squeeze a little. Just—show me what you could do if you—you wanted to.” Steve’s eyes are closed and he’s bucking against the air now. Sharp little movements.

Beautiful beautiful beautiful.

“I—trust you, Billy,” he whispers, needy. “I trust you.”

Billy tightens his grip just a little. Uses his other hand to unbutton Steve’s jeans, unzip them, take hold of Steve’s cock and relieve some of the pressure from those tight fucking jeans. Then he lets up on Steve’s neck, hand stroking up Steve’s dick as he does. Steve’s breath comes deep, though he’d been able to breathe even when Billy had been squeezing, and he lets out this stuttered fucking shattered moan as he slides forward, moves as if pulled, right there, fucking right there, dick brushing right up against Billy’s. Skin to fucking skin.

Billy takes his hand off Steve’s neck to pull the guy’s shirt over his head, needing to feel more of him. Pulls him closer by the ass. Needs him fucking closer. Needs him.

Fucking, Steve. Steve.

Then Billy’s flipping Steve to lay under him on the couch, needs to move, to take control. Hand is back around the guy’s neck and Billy’s squeezing just a little bit harder now, more confident. Loving the way Steve’s legs, kicked free from pants and underwear, are wrapping around his back, pulling him closer as Steve grinds into him, their leaking dicks fucking slick and sliding between them.

He lets up the pressure on Steve’s throat. Steve gasps in a breath. Moans Billy’s name as the air comes back out. Billy kisses him, sloppy and open and fucking wet like the skin sliding on skin between them and oh fuuuck he’s so close. He’s—

He tightens his grip one more time, a little harder yet. Grinds in with a purpose. God fucking shit he’s—

“Cum for me, cum for me, cum for me Stevie, come on.”

And he does. Steve does. And Billy lets up on his grip as he does. And it’s fucking beautiful this gasping, wide-eyed thing that Steve becomes, flushed and clinging and so fucking alive. And Billy’s tumbling over right after, just cumming and cumming and falling down bonelessly, half slung over Steve’s chest and half jammed up against the back of the couch but fuck moving now. Fuck that.

When the uncomfortable feel of the coarse couch fabric on his sticky sweat-slicked skin sharpens back into focus, he stops the lazy doodle across Steve’s chest with his fingers and rises up, searching the guy’s face. Steve’s got the fingers of one hand resting on a soft smile, feeling over the edges, eyes a little wet and staring through the ceiling.

“Hey,” Billy says. “You all good?”

Steve’s eyes gain some focus. Find Billy’s.

“Thank you,” he says, lifting his hand, voice a little hoarse. “I—just, yeah, thank you.”

Billy nods. Dips down to kiss the guy. Then he tips up Steve’s chin to take a look at what he might’ve done. The skin’s a little red there, a thick line where his hand had been. Nothing that won’t fade by morning. Nothing major.

Lucky. What the fuck were they doing?

Some traitor part of him is actually fucking disappointed, though. Wishes it’d maybe bruised a little. He scoops up Steve’s underwear from the messy pile of clothes on the floor and cleans the cum up a bit with them. Too fucking late for a shower. Both too fucking lazy and still-half-drunk tired for that shit. Billy doesn’t even want to leave the couch, come to think of it.

“Scoot,” he says, nudging Steve’s thigh with his knee. “Fucking tired me out. And it’s only—” he glances up at the big digital clock on top of the TV. “—three in the morning. Must be getting old.”

Steve laughs softly, moves over next to the back of the couch, lets Billy half sprawl over him to keep from falling off the edge. Long-limbed and bony as the guy is, Steve doesn’t have any right being this fucking comfortable. But Billy ain’t about to complain. He closes his eyes.

“So,” he says, sleep creeping into his voice. “Was it everything you’d fucking hoped it would be?”

Steve lets out a sleepy “Mmm.”

Billy has a sudden thought and has to keep himself from chuckling. He turns into Steve’s shoulder and kisses it, then sucks in a patch of skin, pulling hard at it.

“Are you—?” Steve tries to ask after a bit.

But Billy brings his palm up and covers Steve’s mouth. Keeps pulling at Steve’s skin, his cheek muscles and tongue aching with the force of the vacuum he’s creating.

“Mmmm,” Steve moans over, breath from his nose blistering. His hand comes up and cards into Billy’s hair. His every breath comes in these thick, closed-mouth moans, blasting a hot steady rhythm over the back of Billy’s hand.

Billy lets the skin go with a pop when he knows it’ll leave a good dark mark. When his muscles finally give out. Uncovers Steve’s mouth that finds his immediately, the fingers in his hair tightening and reeling Billy in.

“God, Billy. God.” It comes out broken. Steve kisses him again.

“Shhh.”

Billy runs his hand down Steve’s heaving chest, over his jumping abdomen, grabs up his dick, thick and hard in his hand. Skin to skin. Pulls Steve to another climax, him moaning into Billy’s mouth, giving up these hot little pants and broken little whines near the end. Coming apart for Billy, left a beautiful fucking mess again. Billy licks a little bit of the spunk off his thumb when it’s all over.

Steve.

Billy just stares; loves the way Steve looks right after he cums. Looks fucking fucked up and perfect and Billy’s made him that way. Billy’s created this scene. Like art or some shit. Living art. Beautiful like that. The most beautiful fucking thing. 

He does some careful maneuvering, crawls up behind Steve and positions his own hard-again dick between Steve’s ass cheeks, just slots it between them, rutting in slow, losing himself to it, pumping against the friction that tight cleft creates. Biting and kissing at Steve’s shoulder as he picks up the pace, as his rhythm becomes this stuttered broken thing and as he lets go again, the slicked up slide of Steve’s cheeks around him after he cums for the second time almost too much to bear.

He never recovers enough to clean Steve up, only enough to pull his softening dick out so that it doesn’t dry there. Kisses Steve again, at the base of his neck. Drifts off before he can do much else.

If Steve moves at all, it doesn’t wake him. What wakes him is the DING-DONG of the fucking doorbell, Steve jerking startled awake by it before flopping back down with a groan, almost landing on him. There’s a loud squeak from the kitchen.

Fucking woke Franklin up, too. Great.

The music is still playing off in the distance. It’s somehow looped back to fucking Time after Time.

DING-DONG

“It’s your house, asshole. Go get the door.”

“Can’t.” Steve says, arm half over his mouth. “Naked.”

“We’re both fucking naked.”

“Shit.”

Billy shakes his head.

DING-DONG

He gets up, punching Steve in the side “accidentally” as he crawls over. Fucker probably likes it. Hauls some pants up his legs as he stands. Throws on a shirt that’s probably Steve's. He looks down. Definitely Steve’s.

Fuck it.

“Yes?” He says, a low grumble as he opens the door and squints out into the blaring fucking sun of this bright winter morning. Steam curls where the warm air of the house mingles with the cold outside. Billy’s head is suddenly killing him.

It’s that fucking girl that had run him over. And then maced him. And then saved his life.

The fuck does she want?

“I’ve thought a lot and I realized that I need to be part of this—whatever it is,” She says in a rush. “This group? Team? Whatever, I need to help.” She lifts a box. “And I brought donuts,” she adds, as if that will make the words coming out of her mouth any more fucking comprehensible. “I heard we were all supposed to bring something.”

He frowns.

“We?”

“Yeah. We.” She braces her free hand on her waist, searching his face like she’s looking for signs of intelligent life. “Everybody’s meeting up here before school? Big planning meeting? Ringing any bells?”

Billy escalates his frown to a glare. Turns back into the house.

“Steve!” he yells. 

Un-fucking-believable. 

“Get the fuck up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper


	18. Alone Together with Everyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get this mad little snowball rolling, shall we?
> 
> Always love a good comment, too, if you're in the mood after.
> 
> Enjoy!

Finally, some fucking pancakes.

He’s gotta say, one more bowl of cereal and shit was about to get messy.

Billy stacks three more cakes on his plate, smothers them in butter, drowns them in syrup, grabs up the last piece of bacon a second before Max can and walks away, hiding a smile at her glare.

Too slow.

The house is noisy and full of movement. It’s chaos. Bright and wild and he’s not used to it. Especially after being trapped in this tomb for a week. He stands a little ways off, balancing his plate to fork up another bite of pancake and watches Steve. Just watches.

Can’t tear his eyes away. Because the guy’s so happy; flicked like a goddamn Bic and lighting up the whole room. And his smile is this permanent fixture as he messes with the brats, as Joyce musses his hair as she walks past sipping black coffee, as he groans at one of Hopper’s jokes then teases Nancy and cackles when she shoves at his shoulder and leans back into Jonathan smiling a smile like _truce_ , like ok we can be friends now, Idiot.

Big happy family.

And it’s beautiful. It really is. But then Steve’s eyes find his. And when they do, all of a sudden Billy’s a part of it too. Inside it. With them.

Problem is, once he’s inside it, it’s a little bit too goddamn much to take, honestly. A little bit too surreal. It’s the comparison that gets him. Turns his pancakes too fucking sweet and soft on his tongue.

‘Cause how the fuck, exactly, does he fit into all this? _Him_? In what fucking reality does he belong here, laughing in this bright clean kitchen with all of them? In the warmth with all of them?

Happy?

He’s a goddamn murderer, for fuck’s sake.

Standing here like the splat of bird shit on a perfectly good goddamn ice cream cone. Ruining it all.

He smiles back at Steve. Smiles a smile that’s exactly good enough to fool the guy, who’s only half paying attention, too happy to be really perceptive. And Steve’s eyes skate away to someone else. Bright and alive and in his element.

Where he belongs.

Billy’s plate clatters a little too hard onto the counter next to the sink, pancakes barely dented, bacon left untouched. He keeps moving deeper into the kitchen. Swings around to hide out of eyesight, leaning into the furthest corner, slipping Franklin a piece of the melon Nancy had brought and just watching the little guy go to town. Wishes his life were that fucking simple. Food good.

“He likes banana best.”

Big eyes staring at him. Will.

“He’s so different now. When we were— Before we severed the connection, he just wanted out. Wouldn’t stop chewing at the bars.”

Billy notices little divots in the metal of the cage for the first time and frowns. Franklin remains oblivious. Chewing away. Food good.

“I can still feel it in you,” Will says, soft. “In him, too.” He gestures at Franklin. “And I think it’s probably—I think I can because there’s a little bit of it left in me, too. Like maybe it’ll always be there. Just—part of me now.”

“Great,” Billy says, shifting uncomfortably. “Real comforting. Thanks, Kid.”

Will smiles a little, staring off toward the others through the kitchen wall. Steve’s laugh makes it around the corner to them. The sound of it seems to snap Will back into the moment. He glances at Billy, looks away.

“It makes us kind of apart, huh?” Will worries his sleeves that hang a little too long on him. “That left over bit. Different.” He hugs himself. “Of course, my mom tells me what I did when it was in me wasn’t my fault.” Now Will’s eyes find Billy’s and stick. “And maybe that’s true. But it doesn’t really matter, right? Because I remember doing it either way. And I always will.”

The kid looks away again, snaps off a little bit of the bacon from Billy’s plate and walks forward. Slips it through the bars of Franklin’s cage, who abandons the remnants of melon to snatch up the new treat. New food better.

“Friends help, though. Even though it feels…wrong. Like now.” 

Billy frowns at him. Opens his mouth. 

“I saw your face,” Will says, shutting Billy up. “It’s how it feels, right? Like you don’t belong? Like you’re… contaminated or something? But it gets better if you keep trying. Sometimes now, with them, I don’t feel apart at all.”

“Yeah well,” Billy says. “I mean with you that’s—” Can’t believe he’s talking about this to a kid. “But listen, I—I killed people, okay?”

And Will just nods.

“I know,” he says. “Me too.” Unlatches Franklin’s cage and scoops the little rat up gently, holds him to his chest and pets him. “Not… with my own hands. But I sent them to die. Saw them die. Same thing.” His hand pauses mid-pet, just rests gentle on Franklin, covering most of his back. “I think my mom’s right, though,” he finally says, catching Billy’s eye again for a moment. “Even if it doesn’t really feel that way. The mind flayer did it through you. You didn’t really do it. It’s not really your fault.”

Billy shakes his head, crosses his arms. 

“Seems a little too fuckin easy to me.”

“I don’t know,” Will says, and moves forward, maneuver’s Franklin into Billy’s hands, the rat’s tiny warm belly now resting against Billy’s chest. Not hot. Same temperature as him. “When somebody stabs someone with a knife, it’s not the knife’s fault. I mean, the knife is what causes all the harm. But it’s not like the knife had any choice, right?”

And Will grabs at Billy’s wrist gently as he turns away, tugs it once before dropping it.

“Friends will help.” He smiles.

Then he makes his way back to the group. And Billy follows. Sits in the seat Steve had saved for him and gets pulled into the conversation. And it feels wrong. But it kind of fucking does help. 

Little bastard is right.

Most of the meeting after breakfast is spent playing catch-up. Getting on the same page. And it’s chaotic and informal and Hopper ends up needing to leave before they’ve even started the actual planning, off to work, directing search parties for people long dead. He looks damn frustrated about it. And after him and El leave, the meeting kind of just breaks up.

But Billy feels better now that he’s in the loop at least. Feels more in control, even if he is just as fucking lost as the rest of them. At least he’s that lost. At least they’re lost together. It helps. And by the time him and Steve walk up to the school doors, he feels ready to get back to the bullshit of classes and cliques and teenage drama.

Nice change of pace. Something he understands. Something he’s good at.

So of course that’s taken from him too. Taken when Tommy and Carol walk up to him as he’s opening his locker, smiling like nothing had ever fucking happened.

The guy Billy remembers as a screaming first sacrifice to the monster, lays a hand on his shoulder. Warm, not hot. Same temperature as his. And Tommy smiles wider.

“Long time no see, buddy.”

Carol smiles too, very distinctly not snapping bubblegum and cracking wise.

“Hope you’re feeling better,” she says.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He ducks out of there as quick as he can without causing a scene, finding Tommy’s hand hard to fucking shake off and needing to pluck it from his shoulder in the end, repressing the urge to shiver.

Now he’s seeing them everywhere. People made like him. People the stupid kids are calling the flayed. And they watch Billy. And they smile.

And Billy can’t do a goddamn thing about it.

“We need to get the fuck out of here.”

He’s tugging at Steve’s sleeve on the sly as the guy walks up to him at lunch. Letting go just as quick. People are watching. Flayed and unflayed. Most seem to be waiting for a fight. Steve looks shaken. Jumpy. Goes to grab at Billy’s hand but realizes he can’t at the last second. Makes a fist instead.

“They’re fucking everywhere, Steve,” Billy says, barely keeping his voice at a whisper. “You hearing me? We’ve gotta go.”

“You think they’re not everywhere out there, too?” Steve says, running his hair back and rubbing at his eyes. “Just—for now, we stick to the plan.”

Like they even have a plan. Billy scoffs and walks away. Does it for appearances. Because at school, they ain’t exactly friends. And he worries through the rest of his classes.

After school, Nancy and Jonathan come up to them in the parking lot. They’re followed close behind by a wary Robin. Everyone suspicious. Cautious. Everyone sharing glances like, you still you in there? You good? And everyone is. 

At least for now.

“Let’s grab the brats,” Steve says finally. “Meet up at my house.”

Safety in numbers. It doesn’t need to be said.

“Holy shit they’re in our school now,” Dustin says as he opens the car door. Him and Lucas have a brief tussle for window while Max opens the other door and flops down. Lucas wins. Then he stares over Dustin the whole time, looking at Max who’s pointedly not looking at him.

Billy watches in the rearview mirror. Fucking kids.

Steve pulls up to his house, Jonathan’s tires squeaking up alongside, Robin’s car fitting too in the wide-ass driveway. Fucking rich people. 

Whatever drama is brewing among the kids gets shoved to the back burner real quick when Max sees El is sitting on Steve’s porch. Billy turns to look. She’s there, tiny against the huge house, just hugging her knees and waiting for them.

“El!” Mike says, scrambling out of Jonathan’s back seat and running over to her. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. Rises to her feet.

“New monster.”

They’d talked about it that morning. Weird shit happening. New shit. So it’s back in the cars. It’s split up to cover more ground. And now Billy’s stuck chaperoning a pissy Max and confused Lucas through the fucking woods, searching for “clues” or some shit. Searching for this new monster that might not even fucking exist.

All he’s seen so far are fucking trees. Trees and snow. And oh, look, a fucking squirrel.

They’d found what El had seen easy enough. The crime scene she’d witnessed while spying on Hop after hearing the call on the police scanner. 

The whole fucking clearing had been a turned into a cherry snow cone gore fest. Blood everywhere. The scene was quiet and had become half-buried by blown snow since the body had been taken away to be examined. The police tape fluttered in the wind, already looking ragged.

Everyone had been tense. Silent.

Unlucky motherfucker had been a volunteer. Out with a search party. A useless fucking search party.

Now they’re looking for the thing that had killed him. Three groups headed off into the fucking trees, searching out in spokes around the red clearing. 

Real fun times. Just him and two barely-teens, a whole lotta woods and the fucking lug wrench outta Steve’s trunk, his only weapon if this new monster does happen to show.

Yeah. This’ll end great.

Sound of static has him turning back to glare at Lucas. The kid fumbles the walkie out of his pocket, eyes wide.

“Finished with our first pass.” Dustin’s voice from the walkie. “Headed back. Over.”

“Billy.” Steve’s voice jumps on. “Anything yet?”

Billy motions for the fucking walkie.

“Three squirrels and an ass-load of trees. We’re about to head back.”

“Let me know.”

Billy shoves the walkie back at Lucas. Their boots crunch along through the untouched snow.

“Max,” Lucas whispers. “I’m sorry, okay? She just came up to me and I didn’t know what to say. You gotta believe me, I—”

This is goddamn unacceptable.

“Yeah, no,” Billy says, turning and stopping them in their tracks. “We’re not doing this—” he gestures between the two kids “—right now. Shut up.” He looks them both in the eye. “Focus on not being ambushed.”

He gets blank stares. Fuck this. Turns and starts up again. Gets a total of five steps quiet.

“You didn’t know what to say?” Max hisses. “You’re such a moron. _No_ would’ve been a real good start. How about that?”

“She needed a pencil!”

“Really? She needed the pencil I gave to you as a present? She needed that particular pencil?”

Billy forces his eyes closed. Pinches the bridge of his nose against a sudden headache. Turns, focused on keeping his voice low. Remaining calm.

His eyes open to glare at them, his mouth opens in some futile attempt to talk some damn sense into their heads, and that’s when he sees it. Barely a flutter as it flits through the trees, a brief shine in the reflected glow of the pale sun, then a shape growing bigger and bigger the closer it comes, gliding on silent wings.

Red droplets patter the snow, trailing a path behind it. Marking its approach in what can only be blood. 

Billy dives at Max and Lucas, tackling them to the ground. Hears the zoom of it flying past just after he settles from the jolt of the fall. Fast. Buzzing by too close. Feels the wind of it. Smells the stink of it. Blood patters down from above in the wake of it. Definitely blood.

Lucas is squirming to extract his walkie again.

“Code red! Code red!” the kid yells into the cut-off static of the open frequency.

The walkie is knocked from his hand on the next pass. Or scared from his grip. Billy’s too busy to notice. Too busy bleeding where the thing had scored his back with some sharp part of its fucking anatomy. His hand tightens on the lug wrench. Max’s scared breath puffs against his cheek.

One.

Two.

He rolls up swinging. Feels the shock of impact ripple up shuddering through the bones of his hands, his arms, jarring his shoulders in their sockets. Sees the thing spinning off, kicking up the snow as its momentum slows against the frozen ground. Dark blood clings to the mangled wrench, still trapped in his grip. Gores his hands.

Weak flapping draws his attention to the thing on the ground.

“Holy shit!” Lucas says. “That thing has like an eight foot wingspan! And you just took it out in one hit! Bad _ass_!”

Max smacks Lucas’s head loud enough to make a sound. His hand flies up to where she’d struck and for a beat he looks about to complain, then seems to think better of it. Rubs the sore spot with a silent frown.

Smart kid.

“Kill it.” Max is staring at the thing, bug-eyed. “Billy, Jesus, just kill it already.”

Billy walks closer to the thing, grip loosening on the wrench enough to reposition his hands. Its sickly pale wings are crumpled and torn, the sharp-bristled down that coats them matted and streaked in its own blood now as well as the blood of its last victim. He feels the strength come back into him now. Strength that seems to furl in from somewhere outside of him, pulled dense into his muscles as he raises the wrench again. And at the edges of some sense he shouldn’t have, he feels the others. The flayed. Knows that outside strength comes from them somehow. Some missed connection. Some hold they still have together.

But not connected to _it_. No connection to the fucking Mind Flayer now. The big bad king of monsters. Just the rest of the fucking puppets. And just barely, thank God. Just enough for this.

They can’t see him. Find him.

But they’ll give him this.

He brings the wrench down so hard it punches messy straight through the insectile body of the monster in front of him and leaves a divot in the dirt below. His follow-through bends the metal near in half. The weak movement of the wing slows, stops. And he feels like he’s done the thing a favor. Feels better now that it’s not squirming in pain. Closes his eyes as he feels the borrowed strength drain away, back out into the growing crowd. He drops the useless wrench.

“It’s a new species!” Dustin calls from the tree line. Jumps up and down a few times, arms raised in triumph before scrambling across the snow. Little dude is way too fucking excited.

“Yeah,” Lucas says. “Of monster. Calm down.”

Billy almost snorts.

“Hey,” Steve says, sliding to a stop from his entrance. “I said don’t run off!”

“But we were right!” Dustin says, all lit up. Billy crouches, grabs up some snow and rubs his hands clean. “The random attacks! The sheep and pets! It was something new!”

Robin strolls into the clearing, tilting her head at the dead creature. Welcome to fucking Hawkins.

Dustin laughs, catching Billy’s attention again. Unties the redundant jacket layer from his waist and uses it to grab up the edge of a wing, stretching it to its full span. Goes around to do the same on the other side. Billy rises, backs off, lights up a cigarette. This geeky shit is bound to take a while. Steve seems to have the same idea. Walks over. Billy takes one more hit then passes his cigarette off, not even thinking about it. Steve takes a drag and Billy grabs himself a new one, lights up. The familiar routine. Muscle memory.

But they ain’t alone.

Max’s look catches his eye as he flicks Steve’s zippo shut, stuffs it in his pocket. Suspicious. Or maybe just curious, every expression tends to look a few shades pissier on her face. He shrugs. She raises her brows, but doesn’t press. Walks off.

“Looks like a moth—oh my god its a gloomwing! It’s a goddamn gloomwing! Mike,” He waves the incoming group over. “Tell me this isn’t the definition of a gloomwing!”

Kid really needs to cut the caffeine. Billy just shakes his head. Mike walks over, hand in El’s, with Will trailing up behind. Nancy and Jonathan break off, headed their way, and Steve moves to meet them, but Billy stays put. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on the little shits.

“Gloomwing.” Mike says, face going still with concentration. “A giant moth-like creature from the plane of shadow that can slip through tears in the fabric of the planes and enter the material realm. Yeah. It’ll do.” Mike shrugs. “Gloomwings also implant their eggs in the corpses of their victims.” He wrinkles his nose. “Do you think that guy—?”

“Not enough left,” El says, shaking her head.

“Eww,” Lucas says, pulling a disgusted face. “Thanks for that.” His eyes never leave the monster’s corpse. “But I guess that’s good. I sure as hell don’t want to see this thing’s babies.” He shudders.

Max crosses her arms. “We have to burn it.”

“Are you crazy?!” Dustin says, waving his hands. “We have to test it!” And he pulls out a compass. “Like, is it creating a magnetic… field?” He looks up. “Guys?” he says. “We need to take a look over there.” He looks down at the compass again.

“Why?” Max says, uncrossing her arms and walking closer.

Billy zones out the explanation. Finishes his cigarette, eyes flicking every now and then to Steve where he’s talking in a close little group with Jonathan and Nancy. He could go over. He should go over. Nothing’s stopping him. Nothing at all.

“He’s cute.” Robin says, hands behind her back and bouncing up on her toes. “If you’re into that whole rich and handsome thing.”

When had she come up next to him?

“Are you?” he asks. Not that he cares. He drops his smoked-down butt into the snow. Buries it with his toe.

“Not particularly,” she says, smiling softly. “But I don’t fault _you_ for it.”

And what the fuck? Is he wearing a fucking sign today? I’m gay for Steve Harrington, ask me why?

“Please, with the glare,” she says. “You’ve been shooting him puppy-dog eyes for the past five minutes. It’s adorable. Plus,” she says, “the whole living room smelled like boy-sex this morning while you were cleaning up. I was just too classy to mention it. Must’ve been _some_ party though.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“We— You—” Billy can’t even put two words together. Gives up. Flips her off. Turns away from her knowing look and whistles to the little threesome. Points to where the kids are disappearing into the tree line when they look up at the noise. Starts walking after the little bastards, ignoring Robin’s smug humming as she follows.

What the fuck are they up to now?

Once he catches up to where the kids have stopped, he realizes he'd've been better off not knowing. 

“What. The fuck. Is that?”

He barely gets the words out, brought up short and gaping at the hole in the fucking world. Even with the monumental distraction, he feels Steve step up beside him. Feels him there. How close he is. A little bit fucking comforting. A little bit grating.

“New gate,” El says, frowning and stepping forward. She turns, looks back. “This is bad.”

Yeah kid. Bad. You’re telling me.

He looks through the thing, the gate, looks into the darker world beyond.

And some small part of him feels the pull of home.

Screw it. He grabs Steve’s hand.

It helps.

They are so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour


	19. Walk a Rocky Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you really should be doing important real-life things, but you're writing instead?
> 
> Just me then?
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fruits of my procrastination.
> 
> And by all means, reinforce my behavior with a comment. I mean, it benefits you in the end.

Steve’s hand burns in Billy’s.

Billy wishes he could’ve skipped over the rest of the day, just lived out his twenty-four hours in this single moment, right here.

Because honestly, watching a thirteen-year-old seal up a hole in the fabric of the universe with her freaky-ass mind powers had been a moment right up there in the top ten things Billy could have lived his whole life without experiencing.

And being attacked by giant monstrous worms controlled by some eldritch-fucking-horror really should have been number one on that list.

On anyone’s list.

You would think, right?

The fact that it’s not even close pisses Billy off a lot more than the weeping, angry monster bite healing uncomfortably under the bandage on his shoulder.

More than the fact that he’ll be spending the next few nights on Jonathan’s floor.

Seriously, fuck eighty percent of today.

If it weren’t for that last twenty….

Really, the only thing soothing that anger is the burning against his palm. Steve’s hand resting there in his on the seat between them, lit by the intermittent orange light of each intersection they pass on their way to pick up a truly fucking enormous pizza order.

Because it’s not as if a little thing like a monster attack is gonna dampen those kids’ appetite any.

It’s not like facing monsters isn’t day to day for them at this point.

Like in the woods. Prime example. Like how as soon as El begins to make progress on the rift there, a new fucking monster comes shooting out; this horrible searching bristled tongue from the rift’s gaping black maw.

And Billy has his hands on it in an instant. Stops it from reaching El. Surging forward with that borrowed strength, he stops its forward momentum with a roar of applied energy as his fingers pop through its pale gluey skin and dig into the meat below. Snagging it. Hanging it up midair, its massive body writhing, black spiking hairs needling Billy’s arms as it shakes, its fucking toothy pincered mouth opening up in a familiar grotesque flower, gaping inches from his face. 

It roars. He roars right on back. Yeah, tough fucking titty, Big Guy. Roar all you want. You’re done. 

His fingers dig deeper, aiming to crush the thing.

And he takes a moment to look back and see that El’s back to closing the rift, that she’s okay. That’s when the second horrible thing pops on out, latches its huge fucking mouth onto his shoulder, pulling him forward in a disorienting jerk toward the dark asshole of the world.

His hands release the first worm involuntarily and it rears up, ready to eat his head whole, just pop it juicy in one bite like a cherry tomato.

And that’s when he’s tugged, heels sliding, backwards to tumble across the snow. Half his shoulder meat stays behind. El is there when he looks up. Of course she is. Stepping forward, palms raised. She forces the writhing things slowly back. Back.

Steve, Nancy and Jonathan are awkwardly lifting him, there at his side. He hadn’t even noticed their approach. He tries to get his feet under him, slipping in the snow, distracted.

Come on, Kid. Come on, Kid, you’ve got this.

And she does. With a scream and a pressure he can fucking feel, she catapults the worms backward into the rift. Her scream punches wilder. Louder. The rift snaps closed. 

El slumps forward, bracing herself up with her arms, still standing, back heaving. Then she straightens, turns, smiles. Smiles at Billy. The blood from her nose stains her teeth.

“You and me,” she says. “Are a good team.” And she wipes away the blood without smudging the smile.

Billy laughs. Really laughs. Because what the fuck?

“Yeah,” he says, standing on his own on shaky weak legs, feeling what must be poison radiating out from his shoulder and knowing it won’t kill him. Knowing he’ll heal the same way he’d known that he’d be able to hold that worm off. “Yeah, we’re some fuckin team, Kid.”

He takes a step forward and falls back into Steve. Max runs over, concerned face and all. Aww.

Okay. Maybe the poison won’t kill him. But right this moment it’s doing a number on his…everything.

“Must be a paralytic,” Dustin says, no less enthusiastic about this whole thing. “That must have been the larval stage of the gloomwing! The—” He snaps his fingers, searching for the word. “Mike, help me out.”

The kid grudgingly tears his eyes away from El, hands on her shoulders.

“Tenebrous worm.”

Dustin nods, gestures to Mike like, look at this genius over here. Billy’s lips are numb and he swallows thick on the taste of fourth of July, gunpowder smoke in the dark. He sags a little further into Steve, who slings Billy’s arm up over his shoulders and holds Billy up around the waist, arm a hot bar across him.

“It was like it was eating away at the rift.” Nancy says, voice bleeding into the air in wisps of white that curl and dance and dissolve in the cold like cotton candy in your mouth and oh fuck what is this shit doing to him? Nancy looks to Jonathan, eyes wet puddles in her face. Billy shakes his head, trying to clear it. The world keeps moving long after he stops, swirling like a shaken goddamn snow globe. And he hears a bell somewhere off in the back of his mind. And he’s probably gonna puke.

“It was keeping it open,” Nancy goes on. “Remember, in the woods last year, when I crawled into that tree looking for Will? The hole almost closed up behind me. It was healing itself.”

“So the rift was never closed?” Jonathan says, voice coming too slow, mouth moving too fast.

“And what, it killed off all its monsters just to fake us out?” Steve asks, skeptical, and those words seem to rumble directly out of Steve’s chest to get to Billy’s. Not coming through his ears at all. “I thought the rift closing—”

“Why not?” Robin says. “If I was a world-devouring monster that’s what I’d do.” Billy nods. It doesn’t work like it should and his head just kind of hangs there after. “Let you think you’d won while I kept making moves behind the scenes.”

“So how many of these hidden rifts—” Steve begins, but that’s as far as he gets. And thank fucking God. Billy’s about to lose his goddamn mind over here.

“Hey! We need to get Billy out of here,” Max says like, fucking duh, like, aren’t you supposed to be the responsible ones? “Look at him.” She gestures to him.

She's got a point.

Billy doesn’t even try to say so, though. Mostly because he gets the impression that he’s drooling and he ain’t about to make that shit worse. Steve repositions him. Wipes Billy’s face with the sleeve of his coat. Wipes his drool. That’s love right there. God. Steve really must— Billy almost smiles. Thinks better of it. Just got the drool taken care of. Jesus, keep your mouth closed.

“Right. We’ll—” Steve’s eyes keep on Billy’s, concerned. Pretty fuckin eyes. They’re so fuckin big. Billy can feel Steve behind them. Feel how Steve and him seem to touch when their eyes meet. Something inside making invisible contact. Powerful. Goddamn amazing. 

“We’ll figure this out later,” Steve says, pulling his eyes away. Shit. “Let’s all just head back to mine, okay? Joyce and Hopper can meet up. It’s too late to be splitting up with the flayed waiting out there for us.”

And no one argues. The kids even sound a little excited. Billy finally just closes his eyes. Gives up on looking. Definitely gonna puke.

He makes sure to do it before they get in the car. Feels a lot better for it, too. Spits bile into the snow. Fucking disgusting. Why is he always puking?

By the time they’re home—at Steve’s home, pulling up to Steve’s house, Billy’s at ninety percent again.

Fucking poison, anyway.

Steve gets pulled into logistics and so Robin volunteers to bandage Billy up. ‘Cause that’s gonna happen.

“I’ve got it,” he deadpans. “Thanks.”

She pouts theatrically. Girl just rubs him the wrong way. Reminds him of Max a little. Wonders why all the girls in his life are such pains in his goddamn ass.

Remembers it’s not just the girls.

He needs a fucking shower.

And his shirt is ruined. Again. Like there’s some goddamn conspiracy to keep him walking around half naked. He sheds the shirt and heads to the bathroom. A bathroom. Whichever is closest. Shakes his head, just hoping he doesn’t run into anyone when he’s so close to blowing. Fucking rich people and their twenty bathrooms.

The shower helps. Brushing his teeth with his finger and some toothpaste cause he’s too lazy to find the right bathroom helps. And once the gauze is taped down and hiding the maze of slowly healing toothmarks on his shoulder, that helps too. Can pretend that things are normal. That he’s normal. That maybe Neil just got a little too rough again when they’d had a fight.

He almost fucking misses those fights. God. The fuck is wrong with him? Misses those familiar exchanges of words and one-sided blows. They were easy to process. The norm. Easy to deal with.

Compared to this.

How the fuck is he supposed to process this shit?

He can feel the flayed out there. Everywhere out there. This net of intelligence, vast and fucking alien. But familiar, too. Sickeningly familiar. And hungry. Feels like he’s hemmed in here. Trapped. Feels claustrophobic here. Like the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. Feels the new monsters and their new gates out there in the cold dark. The fucking Mind Flayer behind it all, pacing its fucking warehouse. Waiting.

It’s all too goddamn weird. Always changing, the world constantly flipping the script on him.

He fucking hates change.

He splashes cold water on his face. Dries it. Touches the St. Christopher medal to stop it swinging as he props himself against the sink, hand gripping the wet porcelain too tight.

“I won’t be gone long Sweetie,” His mom says in memory, kneeling before him in her pretty dress, a tear falling from her eye, clinging to her pale cheek and rolling down to drip from her trembling chin.

“Mom,” he says, sobs, hugging her, digging his fingers into her hard because he knows she’s lying. The tear. The tear tells him she’s not coming back even if she can’t say the words. He’s seven and he knows that much.

She pulls away, pulls hard out of his grip because he won’t let go. And he’s left with a few of her hairs in his fist. His fist won’t loosen. The sobs keep coming, interrupting his breathing, scaring him because he has no control over them at all. Of himself at all. He can’t stop. And he wants to stop because he can barely see her through the tears.

“Mom,” he sobs again. It’s all he can manage. Somewhere hidden between those three letters is the sum of all he wants to say to her, holding those three stupid letters together in one solid syllable. The glue. Like saying it will hold the two of them together, too, Billy and her. His arms are held out, frozen in place in a broken hug, one fist still clenched around her stolen hair.

“I want you to keep this,” she says in a voice that’s mostly whisper, thick with tears. “St. Christopher. For travelers. Take it. Take it. I have to go before—”

She loosens his fist for him. Doesn’t say what they both know. _Before Neil gets back_. The hairs are caught up on a breeze and he sobs again seeing them go. The cold necklace replaces them. His fist refuses to close on it.

“This way we’ll still be together.” She smiles. But the smile is all wrong. It hurts to look at.

“Liar,” he whispers. And he closes his eyes. He isn’t gonna look at her again. He can’t.

And the last thing he feels before she goes is the cold metal of the necklace chain resting against the back of his neck as she puts it on him. And then the breeze through the open door cooling his tears.

He stares at his face in the mirror. Looks for her in it. Tightens his fist around the medal and for the millionth time almost snaps the chain. Almost severs the link.

But he can’t. He never can.

Instead he puts his pants back on and looks at himself in the mirror one last time. Lets out one long shaky breath.

Heads back out into the melee. He can already hear the kids' crazy chatter. Is walking toward it past the front door when that door opens. When a lady with very neat brown hair, very neat clothes and shoes and luggage and nails, comes through the door and stops short when her eyes land on Billy.

“Andrea, would you please stop blocking the door?” Comes an exasperated male voice from behind her. “These bags aren’t exactly light, you know. All that shopping you did in Paris….”

“Charles!”

The man drops the luggage, comes forward at the cry. Billy puts his hands up, palms out, on reflex, really wishing for a shirt. The man’s face goes red and stormy as he moves to step in front of his wife.

“Dad,” Billy hears as Steve slides into the room, panting. “Mom. You’re home. That’s great. This is Billy.” And he gestures at Billy as if he weren’t the only half-naked guy in the entryway. “He’s a—a friend. He was over here babysitting with me and he was helping me cook and, it’s really funny, he got barbecue sauce all over him so I let him use the shower.” He laughs and it’s so fucking strained. “Go ahead and borrow one of my shirts, man.” And Steve gives Billy this desperate fucking scared-out-of-his-mind look. So Billy nods to him. Nods to Steve’s fucking parents who look at him like he’s something someone must have stepped in and tracked into their house.

“Nice to meet you both. Steve’s told me a lot about you.”

Doesn’t even glare when he says it. Or throw them a threatening grin. No. He keeps his face neutral. Even if he does want to deck fucking both of them for what they’ve done to Stevie. They nod and he heads upstairs. He can be fucking polite when he needs to be. If he has to be.

God, the look on Steve’s face.

And he can hear Steve’s dad’s raised, clipped voice before he even makes it to the top of the stairs. And it takes all of his willpower to keep walking. To leave it be.

When he comes back downstairs, presentable in Steve’s least annoying shirt, the guy’s parents aren’t around.

“Out to dinner,” Steve says, that half dead look back on his face when Billy asks where his folks went. Everyone is quiet in the kitchen, a somber ring around the island and the ice cream carton they’ve dug out. 

“They came back for a friend’s birthday I guess,” he goes on. “And by friend, I mean business associate. The rich assholes from Chicago all think this town is sooo fucking adorably quaint.” His voice turns mocking. “They always get a kick out of coming out here to the boonies. Renting out a whole restaurant or a barn or some shit.”

Robin sticks a clean spoon into the ice cream. Slides it on down the island counter to Steve.

“Rocky road.” She says, chin on her crossed arms resting on the counter. “Apt flavor choice.”

Steve picks up the spoon. Stabs it violently back into the carton a few times. Robin pulls a face, looks like she wants to say something. Billy catches her eye. Shakes his head.

“You brats hungry?” He asks instead. Eyes the half-gone ice cream Steve’s still murdering. “For food?”

Too many voices answer at once.

“Let’s get pizza,” Steve says. “My treat.” He shows off his parent’s plastic. Slides the phone out into the middle of the island counter. “Figure out what you want and call it in. I’ll pick it up.”

He stabs the spoon into the rocky road one last time. Deep. Then he gets up. Heads out into the living room.

Billy follows. Of course he fucking follows. Follows Steve right out into the back yard and hands him the lighter when he sees him patting his pockets, lit up by the still fucking glowing pool light. Takes the lighter back when he sees how hard the guy’s hands are shaking. Grabs up the cigarette too.

“Nance’s friend died here, you know.” He points at the pool. “Barb. Right there.”

Billy lights the cigarette. Takes one more puff before answering.

“I heard.” He passes the cigarette to Steve who takes a long drag.

“But her body is still—in there,” he says, pointing. Ashes the smoke. Takes another drag. “In the pool. In the Upside Down or whatever, but it’s still—sitting there. In my pool. Just always there.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath, a great plume of fog in the cold, lit by eerie blue. Passes the cigarette back.

“Scares the shit out of me, thinking about her just rotting down there. When I was here all alone it was—”

He looks at Billy.

“My parents don’t want anyone staying overnight and disturbing them while they’re here. Their words.”

“Well they seem _great_ ,” Billy says, angry and kicking some snow into the pool. Wishes he hadn’t when Steve’s expression goes stricken for a moment. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, taking one more drag then passing off the cigarette. “I’ll manage. Always do.”

“So I asked Jonathan if we could crash at his,” Steve says as if Billy’d never spoken.

Billy turns to look at him. Only gets his profile. Gets the billow of smoke and warm breath on his exhale.

“And your parents? Don’t you want to see them? They—”

“Aren’t here for me.” Steve cuts Billy off. Stares straight in his eyes. That invisible brush of contact between their wills. Points him out with the cherry of the cigarette. “Not like you are. They’ve never loved me, they just—”

And he stops dead. Looks scared.

_Never loved me. Not like you._

And Billy’s heart makes this thunderclap beat in his chest, like it’s trying to break the fuck outa there. Just the once. Steve’s eyes are too big. His face is frozen in place. Just waiting. There’s this energy zipping in Billy’s limbs like too much adrenaline and he struggles to stay still.

Steve passes him the almost dead cigarette with a hand that’s shaking again. And Billy can’t help it. He plucks the cigarette away and drops it. Grabs up the trembling hand. Just stares at it. Pets at it a little. Not knowing why the fuck he grabbed it in the first place other than the fact that he hated the weak way it fucking trembled. When it stills he tugs at it.

“You’re not wearing a coat,” he says, because it’s an easy out. “Bet the kids have the pizza ordered by now. Let's go inside before you fuckin freeze or something.”

Steve nods, eyes a little relieved, a little… well who the fuck knows?

Billy’s a goddamn coward. He knows he is. Has this sick feeling creeping up through his guts that he fucked everything up.

They talk to everyone but each other as they wait out the time. Billy’s eyes stay locked on Steve only to dance away when Steve looks his way. Find their way back after a bit to find Steve’s eyes doing the same.

He doesn’t hear a goddamn thing anyone else says to him.

And Robin keeps throwing him these looks like she knows or something. But how could she? And even if she does, fuck her. She needs to leave it.

It’s not helping anything.

He’s shaking by the time they make their way out to the car. And he can’t fucking leave it like this. So he follows Steve around to the driver’s side.

“Did you wanna drive?” Steve asks, noticing Billy and turning to blatantly not look at him, staring off over his shoulder.

Billy lets out a sharp sigh. Fucking fucker. Shoves Steve into the door enough to hurt a little.

Billy unzips Steve’s coat halfway in a quick tug, pulls it and his shirt collar over roughly till the mark he’d given Steve is visible. Runs his finger over it lightly. Barely touching it.

“Billy,” Steve says, voice forced small and serious by the touch. Hands bracing on Billy’s shoulders. Squeezing tight.

“I fucking love the way you say my name,” Billy says. “Love your voice when I touch you too.” He touches over the bruise again, still dark and beautiful and binding. Steve melts back into the car, eyes dropping closed and eyebrows finding one another.

“And you’re right. You were right. I’m here for you,” Billy whispers, eyes on that bruise, heart galloping now and insides windy and empty. “So now I’m gonna trust you with this. I’m gonna tell you that I do fucking love you. Because I don’t think you’ll—” Billy swallows back the fear. Takes a deep breath. Takes another. Hates that Steve has to wait through those terrified breaths. “Because I know you won’t use it to—use it, you know, against me.”

He takes a chance. Looks up at Steve’s face. Gets kissed for his trouble.

“How the fuck am I supposed to follow that?” Steve says, shoving him away lightly. Gripping his shirt so he can’t get too far away.

And all the tension flies right out of Billy on a windy laugh. Just this big old burst of air with no voice behind it. God, he feels good.

“Could say you love me back, asshole. You know. Any time.”

“I do love your back,” Steve says. “And your asshole. Any time. But only because they belong to you.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Billy says. Pushes Steve’s face away with his palm and walks over to the passenger side. “I take it back.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Steve says, opening his door and climbing into the car after Billy. He grabs up Billy’s hand. Hand hot against Billy’s palm. And the interior of the car grows still, serious. Billy looks over. Looks Steve in the eye. Steve’s thumb runs the back of his hand. His face is open and honest and hopeful and strangely grave. He looks older. Looks so fucking adult just now.

“Yeah. I love you. More than I can even—” Steve begins, eyes bright. “You’re it for me.” He sighs. Squeezes his eyes shut for a moment then forces them open. “No parents to love, not for years. No siblings. No friends that I’m that close to. Though I do try.” Steve smiles. “Nope. It’s just you. You get it all.” And now Steve looks down. “And I’m really fucking scared that’s too much to put on you. That you’ll just—that I’ll just be too—needy. Too—too much and you’ll just—”

“I will never fucking do that,” Billy says and his hand tightens around Steve’s so hard that the guy gasps.

“Billy, you’re—”

“Shit.” He lets up. Kisses Steve’s hand. His mom’s face hovers behind his eyes, a useless fucking mirage. “Shit shit shit shit, fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just. I’m not ever gonna do that to you Steve. You need to know that.”

“So I’m stuck with you is what you’re saying,” Steve says, squeezing Billy’s hand now.

Fucking guy. Billy just kisses Steve’s hand again. Sits back in his seat.

“Till you kick me out. Like I fucking said.”

And Steve smiles. Lets go of Billy’s hand only long enough to start up the car, put it in gear. It’s burning against Billy’s palm again in no time.

The drive is silent. A peaceful silence. And Billy spends it just watching the orange light of intersections walk across their clasped hands.

Yeah.

This love shit is alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And So it Goes – Billy Joel


	20. As Usual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. Much like pudding. Butterscotch pudding. I'm too tired to come up with anything witty to say here. Love you guys.
> 
> Comment if you love me back. Or hate me back. Or are ambivalent regarding me. You know, just comment, because I love hearing your thoughts.

The smoke alarm’s been busted in the auditorium for years.

He’d learned that the first damn day of school after they’d got into town from some Sophomore tryin to get in good with the cool new kid from Cali. 

Everyone knows about the auditorium. The teachers fucking use it. He knows because he once smoked an uncomfortable cigarette right alongside his history teacher, just staring at the man’s balding head three rows in front of him across the aisle, the two of them stridently pretending not to notice the other till Mr. Albertson got up and walked right up to Billy, put his cigarette out in the communal ashtray Billy had balanced on his chair arm and told Billy he’d been very amused by the latest essay Billy had turned in with this fucking look on his face while he said it like someone he knew had just died.

A week later the grade had come back an A. Had an honest-to-goddamn-God smiley face up in the corner.

Billy’ll never understand this fucking world.

Today, he has the place to himself, the only light coming from the cans shining down on the aisles. The stage is a shadowy void in the front wall, but every now and then the air currents in the big room have the ratty velvet back curtain rippling out. Swaying like someone’s behind it, fucking with him.

Not that he’s paying attention to it. Not that it’s worrying him.

The smoke from his cigarette rises to the rafters as he definitely doesn’t look at the fucking curtain. He sits snug, leg thrown over the chair arm, a little damp still from the freezing rain that’s washing the snow into slush outside. 

He hadn’t even made it through his first class today. 

It was history. Kind of fucking hard to concentrate when the teacher was smiling at him the whole time, just staring like the guy was planning some creative way to fucking kill Billy later. When a third of the class was doing the same and the rest of the kids in the room were just looking around wondering what the hell the crazy Hargrove kid had done this time. Wondering why they weren’t in on the joke, maybe. Those teenage insecurities, baby.

Fun shit. 

Fucking, Mr. Albertson. Out of all the teachers. 

All this, with the flayed, it’s getting a little bit goddamn ridiculous.

And Billy’s tired. Been awake since four in the morning, as usual. Up, because Steve had made some noise in his sleep. As usual. Some scared little noise in the quiet blue moon-glow of 4am and since the fucker had crawled down off the couch in the middle of the night to cuddle, that noise came in loud and clear right in Billy’s ear.

And then he was awake. As usual.

And since he was already awake, Billy had rolled over and found Steve’s ear, quietly reassured him like he always did, even though doing it made him think of his Mom like it always did. Then he’d kissed Steve like he always kissed him, soft against the perfect fucking hair at his temple. And Steve calmed down. 

As usual. 

Same as he’s done every fucking night since Billy’d first spent a full night at Steve’s house.

And after Steve was all good, Billy had just listened to the night sounds in the small strange house with its thin walls that reminded him of home. Could almost hear the others breathing over the squeak of Franklin’s wheel. He really needed to fix that.

Little dude loves that fucking wheel.

Now, wishing his stupid fucking body would shiver at the cold damp of his clothes, a little bit pissed at anything he lays eyes on, he sits in this smokey fucking auditorium and rubs at his aching eyes. Can’t believe he’s in here, sitting here like some goddamn coward, and he lets himself be pissed some more because the smoke from his stupid fucking cigarette tastes wrong without Steve’s flavor on the filter. That sloppy little wet spot on his lip.

And the curtain just fucking moved again. There’s that, too.

He gets up. Needs to check it out because he can’t relax with it rippling like that. He stalks up the stage stairs, keeps the pace up across the scuffed floor, and with all his pent up irritation, he whips the curtain to the side.

Nothing. Of course there’s nothing. 

At least not behind the curtain. Before he can turn to go back to his seat, the light fades out behind him. He turns in time to be blinded by a spotlight. Shields his eyes and squints up to the lighting booth. Takes another drag, unimpressed. Pretending his fucking hardest he’s unimpressed. Unimpressed and not shitting his pants. Nope, not him.

“Yeah, okay. Ooooo.” He waves the cigarette around, taking in the lights. “Very scary. Now get your dramatic little bitch-ass down here and let’s have a look at you.” He puts his cigarette between his teeth, waves the fucker on down, grinning up at the booth around the filter before he takes another drag, feeling a little better for the bravado. For the fact that his voice comes out strong and sure and all I-could-fucking-care-less like he means it to. He slips the smoke back between his fingers, waves up into the darkness, like, “Hi,” the burning cherry leaving a ribboning trail in the glowing air around him.

“Let’s talk, huh?”

At first he can’t tell if anything has changed. The light seems to create a misty curtain at the edge of the stage, obscuring all but the first few rows of seating. Once the asshole reaches that mark though, Billy smiles.

“Well, if it isn’t our good friend Tommy. How’s life as a fuckin monster treating you, huh, Pal?” Billy ashes his smoke over his crossed arms. Takes another drag. 

Play it cool. Keep up the grin. Don’t you start fucking shaking now. Not if you want to live.

He can feel the other flayed out there, flooding into the aisles. Doesn’t hear a sound as they line the walls of the big dark room.

“Feels great.” Tommy says, that fucking smile still in place. “But you know that, Billy. You remember. I remember you feeling just like this. Just the same.” He walks a couple steps closer. Rolls his neck and Billy can hear it fucking pop he’s so close. “Yeah, we remember you, Billy. We miss you, _Billy_.”

Smiling faces edging closer along the walls, creeping just inside the gauzy light. And a whisper hits him from the dozens of gathered lips. Perfectly fucking synchronized. So fucking creepy that every hair on his body stands at attention. So fucking wrong that he almost doesn’t have the leftover brainpower to process what they fucking say.

“We still feel you, _Billy_. Watch you, _Billy_. Watch you through more and more eyes all the time. More and more and more every day. And when this town is ours—” and now the whispers aren’t even human anymore. Aren’t many voices, but one terrifying voice, skipping his ears and buzzing directly into his head it seems. “—you won’t have anywhere to hide her. You won’t have anyone to help you _protect_ her. And after we kill her, we’ll kill _you_. We’ll kill your _friends_. We’ll kill… _everyone_.” Single whispers bounce around the room. “Everyone” flickering back and forth like fire through steel wool, bouncing chaotically. 

“Everyone.” That inhuman voice whispers again through the still crowd.

“Everywhere,” Tommy says, all alone in the light, smiling that fucking smile. “Wanna help?”

And Billy keeps smiling. Keeps that smile stapled up. Gives a good impression of a chuckle to reinforce it.

“So,” he says, stepping forward languidly. “you’re telling me,” he says, tongue darting out thoughtfully, pointing his glowing cherry at Tommy, “that you’re doing alla this,” and he gestures around the room. Gestures at the teeming darkness full of waiting smiling monsters. “Because you’re scared of one little girl?” He holds up his pointer finger.

Then he shakes his head, grinning.

“And then you,” he points at Tommy, “expect me,” he motions to himself, “ta be worried about you taking over the world?”

He chuckles again. And then he lets it grow into a full-on laugh. He laughs long and hard and stops so abruptly, face going so blank that it should be fucking off-putting. But after staring down that unfazed fucking grin for a beat, he realizes he shouldn’t have even bothered. He flicks his lit cigarette straight at Tommy’s chest.

“Okay. Wow me, Dickwad.”

Tommy’s fucked up smile never falters. Not as he raises his arm and gives a little gesture, as the crowd surges forward toward the light. Not as the fluid mass of what-used-to-be people part around him, mounting the stage. Billy sees that fucking smile spread a bit wider as Tommy takes one step forward, takes a bow. It’s the last Billy sticks around to see before he bolts backstage.

A tiny red light calls out to him in the dark of the claustrophobic aisle between the crowded stage junk and he scoops up the walkie as he zooms past the stack of crates he left it on.

“Thunderbird on the move,” he pants into the thing.

The walkie crackles.

“Your callname isn’t Thunderbird,” Dustin’s says over the static. “It’s Goldilocks. We’ve been over this.”

Billy ducks down a side hall in the labyrinth of prop storage. Pulls down some plywood palm trees in his wake. Presses the call button again.

“Fuck you I’m not being— Jesus, never mind. What—the fuck—ever.” Doesn’t have the breath for this shit. “Just be—ready.”

He zigs and fucking zags. Pulls ropes that send heavy objects clattering down behind, unleash slippery objects to splash or scatter across the floor. And at least the traps fucking work. He can hear them working. Feel the numbers thinning, the flayed blocked or crippled back there in the dark. Gotta give the little bastards credit for the forethought.

He chances a brief look behind without slowing down any when the hall is lit by grey sky in the doorway ahead. Two left following that are close enough to count.

So he pulls one more rope, the last rope, and hears a deafening clatter. Darts his eyes back again.

One left. And look who it is.

“Now!” he yells, hopping over the very last trap, headed for the open door.

The net springs. Catches the girl that had been following him up and begins to slide over the floor towards the door, skidding back and forth as the captured flayed screeches and writhes inside its opaque confines. Billy runs up the makeshift ramp, diving into Hop’s truck bed, and helps haul the net up behind him.

“Go, go, go,” he yells as soon as it’s mostly inside. One flayed blinks in the doorway. Runs at them as they start moving, the makeshift ramp thumping to the ground behind them. Comes within two feet of hopping in the truck before they’ve gained enough speed to pull out of its reach for good.

Billy hauls the tailgate up and just leans on it, gasping in great wallops of air. Fucking Jesus. Jesus, that was insane. Fuck.

The girl in the net goes still, quiet, and Billy flops back against the side of the truck bed to see Joyce pulling back from the trapped flayed with a depressed syringe in hand, its needle cap still held between her teeth.

Lucas looks up from near the cab. Max’s eyes stay right on the kid, worrying over him.

“So this _thing_ will know where Erica is?” he says through clenched teeth, jaw muscles straining, eyes on Billy. He won’t look at the net.

Billy just nods, finally getting his breath under control. Hopes he’s telling the truth. Oh, she’ll know, it’ll know. He’s not worried about that. It’ll know. But that doesn’t mean they’ll be able to make it tell them.

Doesn’t mean his little sister isn’t most likely already changed. One of _them_.

“She’s only been gone a couple hours,” Max says, quiet. “She’s gonna be okay. Okay?”

And Billy can tell by her face that she hopes she isn’t lying, either.

Steve crawls over to lean up next to Billy, nudging him with his arm. Hands him a canteen. Where the fuck did he get a canteen?

You know, not that Billy doesn’t take the goddamn thing. His mouth feels like the fucking Sahara after his little stage debut back there and all the running for his life.

 _Everyone_.

Shit, stop thinking about it.

 _Everywhere_.

He takes a real long drink.

Nancy and Jonathan have the blackout room set up in the old woodshed behind the cabin when they get to Hop’s. 

Will stays outside, arm hugging across his chest, hand gripping his other arm too tight. His other fist is white with how hard he’s got it clenched. Got a face to match, too. And Billy almost says something. Knows he owes the kid some word. Some comfort. But he just doesn’t know what the fuck to say. Just stands there like an idiot till the kid looks over at him.

Billy looks back. Nods. It’s all he’s got.

And Will throws him this fake-ass smile like he’s fooling anyone.

Billy’s look turns pointed, eyebrows raised like, really? He walks over and smacks the kid on the back. Lets his hand rest on a bony shoulder for a beat. He still doesn’t say anything, though.

There isn’t anything to be fucking said. And they both fucking know it.

So with one more little smack, this time to the back of the kid’s head, Billy ignores the “hey!” that he can hear coming out through a real smile and walks inside with the others. Keeps his hands busy. It’s what he’s good at. He helps tie Carol down. Down hard enough even he couldn’t get out with his new, fucked up strength. Her head lolls back, off on that same tranquilizer that’d knocked him out a million years ago. She’s openmouthed and limp, completely blotto, completely dead to the world.

It’s the quietest Billy’s ever fucking seen her.

“We can keep watch through the back window,” Hop says, delicately spitting a bit of tobacco off his tongue and exhaling the smoke from his look-how-fucking-tough-I-am unfiltered cigarette. Always looks to Billy like he’s toking on a joint. Looks like the guy could really use one right about now, too.

“She’s not going anywhere. And that tranquilizer won’t wear off for a good bit so there’s no use us freezing our asses off out here.”

“That’s not good enough,” Lucas says from the doorway where he’d watched Carol being tied down. “Can’t you just wake her up? We need to go find my sister! This is bullshit!”

He kicks the doorframe and turns, stalks past Max, quick-timing it a few feet away from the shed, pressing his hands to his head. Mike steps up with raised palms, looking like he’s getting ready to intervene, but it doesn’t come to that. Lucas drops his arms suddenly, comes hurrying on back. Looks at El where she stands inside the shed near the door, his face carefully controlled. His jaw tight.

“Wake her up. I know you can.”

And El looks sad. Big brown eyes on him like she can feel the kid’s fucking pain. Puts a light hand on Lucas’s arm.

“ Friends—” she says, quiet. “Friends help.”

“Yeah,” Lucas says, calming a little, eyes on the ground. “Friends help.” He looks up again. “Help my sister, okay, El? She’s a pain in the ass but I— Just, please. Okay?”

She nods.

“Yes, Lucas. Okay.”

And everyone steps back a little as El steps up and concentrates, closing her eyes and bowing her head. But Billy just stands there. Watches. The hairs on his arms stand straight and this weird fucking feeling creeps closer. Been building ever since he’d settled down in the bed of the truck. Since he’d captured Carol. Now there’s this _sense_ that he shouldn’t have and it’s talking at him. Fucking screaming at him. And it’s screaming in some language he can almost understand.

El’s eyes fly open and she twists her head back to look at Billy over her shoulder.

“Connected,” she says, surprised. “You and her.” She gestures with her chin between Billy and Carol. “You and them.” She tilts her chin up, indicating everything else. The rest of the flayed.

“What do you mean?” Lucas says, angry again, frowning at Billy like all his suspicions are being confirmed.

Can’t really blame the fucking kid.

El doesn’t answer Lucas. She reaches out a hand, big brown eyes fixed calm on Billy’s. And Billy can’t help but walk closer, mouth gone dry again. He reaches out to her. And her hand clamps down on his wrist.

Oh fucking no. No no no no no.

He can feel them all. Stronger than anything he’s experienced so far. Can feel the fucking strings that connect them. Can trace them back to every single one of the flayed. All at once. Every one of them. As if they’re all just one great beast with many eyes. And he’s the head.

He can feel them feel him back. Now, suddenly, when they couldn’t feel him before. Feel them watching. Entranced. Waiting.

Waiting for his command.

“What the fuck?”

He feels himself pulling back. Fading back into himself. Terrified. Feels the slim fingers lock tighter on his wrist.

“No,” El’s voice finds him, washes over him. Calming. “Focus. Find her.”

“Find—” Billy breathes.

“—Carol,” El finishes.

Billy lets the connections in again. Draws the flayed in. Watches them watch him. Wait for him. But there’s something wrong. Someone wriggling in his web. Resisting. Railing against his control. So he focuses in on the rebel.

Tommy snarls at him, thrashing, trying to make contact with the Mind Flayer. And he can’t. He fucking can’t.

Billy grins.

“Carol,” El breathes again, her voice all he can hear for a moment.

Carol. He looks for Carol. Come out come out wherever you are.

He feels her hanging there on a slack string. Dangling. Limp. And he pushes into her mind. Pushes through the haze of drugs and down in deep.

“Wake up,” he commands. And back in the shed, he hears a gasp. Hears her waking. He lets the connection go but can still feel it there at the back of his mind. This power there. Even when El lets up her grip on his wrist, it remains. Waiting to be picked up and played with again.

“I’ll be damned,” Hop says. “Which one of you did that?”

El just smiles softly. Thumbs at Billy. Looks to Billy too, then, face solemn again.

“Ask her,” she tells him. “She’ll listen if you ask.”

And Billy knows she’s right. He nods. Picks up the power once more, this time alone. Not as strong without El, but it’s something. Full of potential. Just an unused muscle, waiting for a few good workouts.

He grabs Carol’s undivided attention, her alone all he can really manage now. Grabs her by the reigns. And it’s still hard. Just that much. Draining.

“Carol,” he says.

“Yes?” Her voice is dead. Flat. So fucking strange coming from this girl.

“Is Erica safe? Is she—” he looks to Lucas in the doorway, but has to fucking ask. “Is she still human?”

Lucas looks away, and Billy can see the kid’s adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow.

“She hasn’t been hurt. She’s separate.”

“Separate?” Billy’s head pounds with the concentration this is taking. He struggles not to gasp as he keeps the connection strong.

“Not part of us.”

“Fine,” Billy says, needing this to be over. “Where is Erica?”

“Waiting with us.”

“Don’t fucking play with me,” Billy snaps. Steadies himself. Straining. Struggling not to show it.

Carol recoils as if hurt. Trembles slightly afterward, unable to stop herself from focusing solely on Billy again. Good. Fucking better be afraid.

God, he’s— This is too much on his body. Way too much for a first try. He grits his teeth. Waits for a reply.

“She’s at the warehouse,” Carol says, voice still that flat monotone. “Waiting with us. With our creation.”

“Waiting for what?” Billy asks, not needing to ask about the fucking abomination of a creation she’s goin on about. Yeah, he’s been there and flipped that off. His legs are growing weaker now and he locks himself upright. Fighting it.

“For trade.” Carol’s eyes are still glazed from the drugs. Her head rolls back and rests awkwardly. Her attention remains fixed on Billy, face blank.

“Trading. What?” Billy says, punching each word out on strained breaths, holding on, already guessing the answer but needing to hear. Needing the others to hear so he doesn’t have to fucking tell them himself. Keeps his anger under control. Doesn’t have the strength for it.

And Carol looks right at El, neck lolling with the movement. She glares, and her voice colors for the first time.

“Trading. _Her_.”

Billy swallows. Waits till he knows he can talk without screaming. Without fainting. The room seems unsteady.

“Sleep it off,” he tells Carol, voice perfectly controlled, and he lets the line fucking drop, near passes out, waits till he knows he won’t just crumple to the floor and then turns slowly to leave without looking to see that she followed his fucking order. Knows she will. Knows the order was good. Needs to leave though. Now, while he can still stand.

Doesn’t want to pass out in front of the others.

He needs Steve.

“Steve?” he says, hoping the guy will hear him and come; hoping he won’t hear, will stay the fuck away and not let Billy embarrass himself in front of everyone by accepting his fucking help to walk. God, he just wants to lie down. Right outside is fine. The snow is soft, even if it is melting away as we speak.

Hop stops him from leaving with a big ol’ hand on his shoulder.

“In a second,” Hop tells him, perfectly calm, casual. “Everyone out,” the guy orders louder, eyes never leaving Billy as he waits for his command to be obeyed. Hop closes the door again once they’re alone with the drugged monster. Shoots her a look. Billy sways. Leans up, shoulder propped against the wall and pretends he’s just being cool. The fucking too-cool rebel asshole Hop expects him to be. Fucking hurry it up old man.

“What is she talking about?” Hop says. “They want El now?” He’s worried. Trying to hide it and failing fucking miserably.

Billy hates to break the fucking news—

“They’ve always wanted her,” he says, wondering how far he’ll get before the inevitable explosion. Hoping it comes soon. Hoping Hop punches him square in the jaw so he’ll have an excuse to pass out. “This whole thing has always been about her. That big-ass world-killing monster sees her as some kind of threat. It’s trying to get her out of the way so it’ll have fucking free reign to kill us all without having to watch its back the whole time.”

Hop doesn’t explode. Fuck. The guy’s face is set, just absorbing the news. Then he nods this small nod, a nod like, yeah, it figures. 

“Fine,” he says, pulling a tapped out cigarette from the pack with his mouth and cupping it to flame, his face glowing orange for a moment. “I was planning on killing it anyway.” Blows the smoke out through his nose. “Just have to figure out how to kill it sooner now, is all.” Gestures vaguely with his hand. “But one thing at a time. You can control them? The people it’s taken over?”

“The flayed?” Billy asks, so out of it he really needs the clarification.

Hop holds up a hand, like, stop. “Fine. The flayed. If there was one person I thought wouldn’t be on board with the goddamn fairy-tale names these kids come up with— But the flayed. Let’s go with that. What’s the story with you being able to control them now?”

Jesus. Did Billy just defend the stupid fucking baby name the kids had come up with for people like him? What is happening to him? What the fuck is he becoming? He slumps a little harder into the wall, the edges of his vision fuzzy and greying. Takes deep breaths, hoping it’ll help.

“Fuck. Okay, so I have no idea why I can control them,” he says, voice definitely weaker now. His legs are straight up shaking. “Or how, I mean the fucking technicalities of it. God—why it works.” He’s full-on relying on the wall now. “Didn’t even—didn’t even know I could do it until El showed me.”

“Can they control you?”

“No,” Billy says. Automatic. Coming back to himself a bit at the snap of reality that shocks into him. How the fuck does he know that?

“How do you know?” Hop echoes. And it’s a good fucking question.

“I just—” Billy says. “I just— Oh shit.” His voice cracks on the last bit. The word shit comes out like it’s straight outta the mouth of a five year old girl.

And his legs give out. Plus side, the rest his legs get makes him feel a little less like he’s gonna pass out any second.

“Shit. Hey,” Hop says, rushing over to crouch in front of Billy. “You okay, kid?”

“Fucking—wonderful. Could you do me a favor and interrogate me about this shit later? Maybe help me inside? Clear everyone out so they don’t fucking see me like this?”

“I can do that,” Hop says. “For now. But this conversation—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy waves. “Lookin forward to it.”

Hop rises and takes off outta the shed. Carol slips down into an uncomfortable looking position and starts to snore.

Fucking fun times.

When he’s made it, slowly as fuck to keep him conscious, into the house, Hop lays him down in what might be his own room. The curtains are closed, tinting the light that does make it in a sick kind-of-sort-of yellowish puke color.

He’s left staring at the fucking curtains for a solid ten seconds before Steve comes through the bedroom door, shutting it behind him so he can crawl carefully up on the bed beside Billy.

“Hey,” he says, lying down, front pressed into the entirety of Billy’s side, leg resting over Billy’s. Real comfy-like. “Screwed yourself over trying to look cool again, huh?”

Billy lets out a weak snort.

“Like you can fucking talk.”

Steve kisses Billy’s shoulder lightly. The spot blooms hot.

“They’re planning how to get Erica back right now. Trying to stop Lucas from just running in there after her,” Steve says, through a smile. “We’ve probably got enough time for a nap before anything exciting happens.”

And that sounds about amazing at the moment. But he can’t just give in. No. That’d be too easy.

“We?” he says. “Don’t know how you’re tired.” Throws Steve a weak elbow. “All that fuckin beauty sleep you get.”

“Hey,” Steve says, punching Billy’s arm lightly. “It’s not my fault you wake up every morning at like 4. Don’t lay your issues on me.”

Billy feels his eyelid begin to tick a little as he lies there squinting, keeping his mouth shut. It’s this little repeated spasm, these contractions in his eyelid. He waits for it to stop, mouth welded shut. 

Not about to give away his secret.

“Anyway,” Steve goes on, oblivious as always, “I’m tired because of those weird dreams I told you about. Every night with that shit. Like I'm in a nightmare and all of a sudden I'm not. And all I remember when I wake up is that one stupid Beach Boys song.” And Steve starts humming, as if Billy can forget the melody.

“Maybe it’s your subconscious tryin ta tell you something.”

“My what?”

“Never mind,” Billy says. Grabs up Steve’s hand as a distraction.

“Fine,” he goes on, running his thumb across the back of that hand. “Take a fucking nap with me, Harrington. Let’s just gay it up to the max over here.”

“Billy,” Steve says, deadpan. “I’ve been balls-deep inside you. I think we’re pretty much there.” 

He kisses Billy’s shoulder again, and Billy feels the hot flare of it even through his shirt. 

“Now shut up and pass out already,” Steve says. “You look like you’re gonna fucking die. Again.”

And he smiles after he says it, but Billy can see the worry behind that smile. So he closes his eyes to make it disappear.

Falls asleep before he can even think to try to.

And he wakes up later feeling a million times better. Jumps awake to the sound of a scared little noise in his fucking ear. Looks at the bedside table and finds a clock. Four fucking pm. What is it with four? What the fuck Stevie?

But whatever. Not like it matters. Right now, he’s just gotta smooth those drawn eyebrows of Steve’s, shush those little whimpers, slow the too-fast breaths. He leans up and finds Steve’s ear.

“I may not always love you,” he sings. Tears already in his fucking eyes. As always.

“But long as there are stars above you,” he goes on, voice warm and quiet and feels Stevie still immediately beneath him. Smiles.

“You never need to doubt it.” Feels his mom’s warm breath on his ear the way it was when she’d cuddle up into his small bed and sing away the nightmares. Feels her remembered softness and smells the ghost of her scent.

“I’ll make you so sure about it,” he sings sweetly, wipes the fucking tear away.

“God only knows what I'd be without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And So it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys


	21. Thin Walls, Forced Smiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, yeah, so you know when you have writing you want to do, but you're doing important real-life things instead?
> 
> That shit is annoying.
> 
> Only comments can make it better now. Throw me that good good medicine, will ya?
> 
> And enjoy, obviously!

What Billy wouldn’t give for a fucking flashlight right about now.

He could have grabbed one. Joyce had offered. But noooo. Don’t bring a flashlight, he’d told himself. A flashlight will give give you away in the dark.

That’s why it’s taking so long now. Taking too goddamn long. Because his past self was a real asshole to him.

It doesn’t help that Billy has no clue what the fuck the things look like that he’s trying to steal. If this can even be called stealing since he’d been handed the fucking keys to the place, Joyce tossing them over with a sad smile from her post at the kitchen table, her sleepless vigil over the freshly traumatized children. Over Lucas, who’d come in swearing revenge. Who’d had to be dragged to Will’s room, struggling. Whose parents had been flayed before he made it home that evening. Had been waiting for him there when he’d walked in his door.

Joyce had tossed those keys to Billy like she already fucking knew what those kids were planning; had just been waiting for them to find a willing sucker. Had known they wouldn’t come to her with this particular request. Wouldn’t want to remind her of her loss.

“Thin walls,” She’d whispered, thin hands wrapping her mug.

And Billy snorted. Plopped down for a cup of fucking coffee before heading off on his “mission.” Now that he didn’t have to worry about breaking in, he had some time.

Thin walls. She wasn’t joking. He’d lain there, listening to the whispers through those thin walls, trying in vain to get to sleep. Trying to kick the memory of Max’s tear-streaked, worried face from his brain. The way she’d watched Lucas fighting against his friends, struggling to get away, to go off all half-cocked and get himself killed, and been unable to do shit to help. The way she’d seemed so small. Smaller than he’d ever remembered seeing her. Her usual anger doused in that moment. Couldn’t sleep. Head full of thoughts like that, memories of that, and so when Will had come out and snuck up to tap Steve on the shoulder, of course Billy had stopped him doing it. Had volunteered in his place. Because he knew better than anyone how big a pain in the ass little sisters could be. Because he knew how important it was to protect them.

He checks his watch again, a feeble, useless green light in the dark. Groans. He’s not gonna make four.

Fuck.

What kind of a fucking idiot is he anyway, volunteering to come out here in the middle of the night, stumble around in the dark of this dusty dead goddamn Radio Shack, fumbling through racks of parts that all fucking look the same, probably looking like the worst fucking burglar in the world?

Well there you go. At least that’s one good thing about the dark. Saving his goddamn dignity a little. At least no-one can see him right now.

Of course, as soon as he has the thought, the bright fluorescent lights snap on above him.

Typical.

When he can see a little without the light driving into his eyes like daggers, he realizes it’s Hop that’s blinded him, who’s standing near the back entrance, a thoroughly unimpressed look on his tired face. He walks up to Billy, who’s still stood there blinking like an idiot, snatches the note Dustin had penned with its chicken-scratch list of parts and glares at it.

Not wasting a word, he strides over to a display, scans it for a few seconds, then plucks something off the shelf. Tosses it to Billy. Moves to another shelf. Soon enough, Billy has a small pile on the counter beside him and Hop is slapping the note back into his chest.

“Joyce called me,” he says. “At home. Woke me up. Then the station called. Concerned baker across the street saw you coming in and thought it looked suspicious.” 

Hop withdraws his hand to rest it on his hip, near his gun. And Billy fuckin swears that close proximity to the weapon is on purpose. A move gauged to intimidate him or something. 

The note flutters to the ground and he watches it go.

Billy wonders if that intimidation shit works on other people. You know. Ones who’ve never met a monster. He raises an eyebrow to Hop, like, yes? Get on with it old man.

“Look, I know why you did it. Don’t really know whether to cuff you or thank you, honestly. That kid….” Hop takes a deep breath and lets it whoosh noisily back out through flared nostrils. “Truck’s out back. I’ll give you and your stolen goods a ride to Joyce’s car. The car that you’ll get directly back to her. In one piece. Understand?”

Billy huffs out an amused breath. Nods. Yes fucking Sir. It’s almost nostalgic being bossed around like this. He almost enjoys it. Feels a little like home. Like how he maybe sometimes pretends it was. Rose colored glasses and all that. Hop’s tone reminds him of some diet Coke version of his dad’s hard-ass streak.

“And kid?” Hop says, getting his attention again. “Stay put once you get back. If I don’t get at least some sleep tonight I’ll be a very difficult man to be around tomorrow and I’ll hold you personally responsible for it.”

The three-block drive to Joyce’s car is a joy.

And the parts are heavy. Hard to balance as he unlocks the car door. He’s careful with the box they’re in, not knowing if they’re sensitive, just going on the assumption that they’ll fucking blow up if he’s too rough.

He isn’t going to come all the way back for replacements, that’s for damn sure.

And he’s careful, unhurried as he makes his way back. He’s already late. Fuck it. No point in hurrying now. Just enjoys the drive. The fact that he isn’t crawling out of his skin in the silence.

The fact that for once in his life, he’s cool with himself.

It’s kind of fucking beautiful once he makes it to the edge of town, just outside the realm of streetlights. The moon light’s Billy’s way down the Byer’s long-ass driveway, and it’s the same moon that shone down on him when he’d been walking it. At the beginning of all this shit. That fight. Same moon, but it doesn’t feel the same. He’s sure as shit not the same. The moon’s so bright that he cuts the headlights halfway down the drive, not wanting to wake everyone when he pulls up. It’s so bright that Steve’s face is glowing like it’s fucking lit from within as Billy pulls up and cuts the engine. Steve stares at him, breath fogging out in cotton-candy puffs, blanket enfolding him as he sits on the porch step. Makes him look about five. Fucking adorable. His face is calm. His smile is warm. Billy cringes at the shriek of the door that pierces the bright silence. Leaves the parts in the car. They can wait.

Billy doesn’t speak as he makes his way over to Steve. As he sits down beside him. He says nothing as Steve unfurls the blanket to wrap him unnecessarily inside, snug up against Steve’s blazing side, to cook him like he’s been popped in some kind of blessed fucking oven.

And Billy loves it. The gesture. The kindness.

And he fucking hates it, too. Hates the fact that he loves it.

Still can’t make himself trust that kindness completely, though he trusts Steve with everything he’s got. Everything. Is still scared as hell of growing dependent on it. Him. This.

Fuck. But it’s not like he can say that, exactly, can he.

So he just sits there in the silence. And the doubt, the fucking fear, stops mattering so much when Steve kisses his shoulder before laying a heavy head down to rest on it. For a little while after that, everything’s okay. Billy forgets to worry. Everything’s good and still and calm and safe and too hot but fuck if he’s not getting used to that burn, too. Getting to like it. They sit there quietly and watch the shadows of clouds move over the yard’s flawless crust of half-melted snow. Watch as a fox comes out of the woods, marring that blank surface with tiny crunching footfalls, nibbling on a nearly full sandwich that Steve must’ve made and then promptly given up on after waking up from his nightmare. No Beach Boys to save him tonight. No Billy. No clue if Steve’s made the connection or not.

Nothing but silence.

The fox goes about its business as if they aren’t there, coming within feet of them, already half tame it would seem. And Billy wonders who’d tamed it. Fed it. Wonders if that’s all it took to get over its natural distrust. Just food. Just that much kindness. The promise of a meal.

Wishes a half-eaten sandwich was enough to do the job for _his_ fucking trust issues.

When Steve starts to shiver, Billy’s lack of body heat no help to him, Billy kisses the top of his head, all soft hair and that fucking _Steve_ scent that he’s always so enveloped in lately he can hardly fucking pick it out anymore if he isn’t buried in it. Hauls him up after the kiss to go inside and warm up. Steve’s sleepy eyes catch his once he’s standing and they look black in the moonlight; might as well be all pupil they’re so fucking dark and reflective, so huge and fucking pretty, and when Steve leans in and kisses him, well hell, that’s fucking pretty, too. Pretty and sweet. And he used to think he hated sweet shit like that. Turns out, he kind of loves it.

Not that he doesn’t grin when Steve bites his lip a little too hard on the drawback. Not that he doesn’t bite back. Bite through Steve’s clothes right over that bruise on his shoulder. Just enough to sting. Doesn’t nuzzle into that hickey he’d made after and snicker at the moan that breaks the silence before he escapes the blanket entirely and heads inside, knowing Steve’s gonna follow. Not that he doesn’t kiss quiet more of Steve’s pretty fucking moans when he slides Steve’s already-hard dick out of his pants and rubs one out for him on the Byer’s couch with everyone and their mom sleeping just beyond those thin walls. Not that he doesn’t break skin on his own hand biting off his own moans when Steve sinks to the floor and shoves Billy’s knees apart, takes Billy’s dick in his mouth to reciprocate, those big fucking black fucking eyes staring up at him, all pupil, as the guy takes him in as far as he can, then pulls back and swirls the head with his tongue and just studies Billy’s expressions as he tries this and that and gets better and better and better at giving head till Billy’s fist is white-knuckling around a handful of that fucking perfect hair and he’s trying his hardest not to just shove Steve’s head farther onto his dick and he’s finally just cumming so hard he’s tasting iron and his hand is throbbing against his teeth and Steve’s jumping at the sudden flood and swallowing it all down and kissing the tip of Billy’s dick after licking the last drop off and that’s probably the sweetest fucking thing Billy’s ever seen in his entire fucking life. No. No. Fuck probably. God, those eyes on him. It definitely is. Definitely. And the faint taste of himself on that tongue when he pulls Steve up and kisses him afterwards kind of makes Billy want to shove Steve’s mouth back down onto his dick so he can do it all over again, makes Billy’s hand fist hard again in that fucking perfect mop of hair, makes Steve’s breath pant heavier at the pull of it. The ache of it.

God, Billy’ll never fucking get enough of it.

He almost forgets to move off the couch before falling asleep. Almost doesn’t care if everyone comes out in the morning to find him and Steve fucking cuddling. Yeah. Full on cuddling. Fuck off if you’ve got a problem with it.

 _Almost_ doesn’t move. _Almost_ doesn’t care.

In the end he rolls off, grudgingly, before Steve can fall fully asleep on him. Doesn’t even bother with fucking useless covers. Just closes his eyes and immediately is gone. More tired than he’d thought. And morning comes quicker than he’d like.

And when it rolls around it brings the sounds of stomping feet and toaster springing and snap crackle pop and bickering and planning and a gentle kick in the ribs from a socked foot when the kids finally get around to wondering where the parts are.

“Car. Fuck off.”

He digs in his pocket and throws the keys. Finds the blanket and pulls it over his head. But it’s really no use. He’s up. He peeks up and out of the blanket to find Steve’s face. To find those eyes open and staring back at him, warm brown again with the morning light. And he can’t help but fucking smile when he sees them. This rising feeling in his chest forces the edges of his mouth up without asking his opinion on the matter. It’s bullshit.

And the best worst part comes when Steve smiles back because fucking shit when did he become such a total fucking girl and what the fuck is happening to him seriously goddamn this is such pansy crap oh Jesus just keep smiling Steve, okay? Just like that.

His own smile doesn’t falter. It’s not connected to the thinking part of his brain. When it gets too fucking embarrassing he buries his face in his arms and decides to just stay there till he can get it to stop. How the fuck does he get it to stop? He feels a ruffling hand in his hair as Steve steps over him.

The smile stretches wider. Fucking fucker.

The kids stomp back in. Eventually, Billy and the smile come to terms and he has control of his own fucking face again. He gets up and hits the bathroom. Comes out and hits the toaster. Cause fuck cereal.

The rest of the morning is spent watching the kids geek out over the parts he’d gotten the sheriff to steal for him, in talking with Jonathan, in fighting the fucking smile that attacks every time Steve fucking looks his way.

When the kids are done, they call everyone in. By then everyone is there, filtering in over the course of the morning. El dropped off before Billy had even been kicked awake, Robin later on, Hop last, dark circles under his eyes and a glare for Billy as he enters.

"So what the hell did you make?" Billy says, resigned, because the kids are just waiting there for someone to fucking ask. He lights up a smoke, can't manage to completely hold in the sarcasm. "The suspense is killing me."

“This,” Dustin says as the group gathers round, “is how we’re gonna save Erica.”

He nods to El who stands near the device. She nods back and flips a switch. Absolutely nothing happens.

“Well,” Steve says. “That’s—is it supposed to be doing something?”

“It is doing something,” Dusin says. “It’s creating infrasound. Too low to hear. It’s at 17 Hz right now, like they use to freak people out in horror movies. But we don’t know the specific frequency we need yet. For that, we need Steve’s basement.”

“My what now?” Steve says, staring blankly.

He’s summarily ignored.

“You’re the one that gave us the idea,” Will says, gesturing at Billy. “When you were telling us about the rat monster in Steve’s basement. How it seemed like it was in pain before it slimed out and escaped down the drain. At first we thought it was the Mind Flayer that ordered it to leave. But that didn’t really make sense. It was winning.”

“Yeah,” Dustin says. “And then we asked Steve what was in the room and he said nothing. Just a new heating unit. And large equipment like that can create infrasound. And infrasound can affect tissues. Can even shake them apart if its strong enough. They’re even trying to weaponize it!”

“So,” Mike takes over, “once we get the right frequency from Steve’s basement, we can distract the meat monster long enough with this,” he gestures to the device, “to sneak into the warehouse—”

“And sneak out with my sister,” Lucas says. And the kid actually looks hopeful.

“So take us to your basement,” Max says.

“Right now?” Steve says, frowning, arms crossed. “My parents—”

“Fuck your parents,” Lucas says. And nobody even fucking bothers to scold him for his language at this point. “We need to go.”

And Steve nods. He nods, but he doesn’t stop frowning. Not as they all pile into various cars. As they drive to Steve’s big fucking house. As they pile back out of the various cars and walk up to Steve’s huge fucking front doors.

It’s not till Steve walks in, notes the emptiness, checks around, that he seems to relax. That the frown loosens. Doesn’t leave, but….

“They’re gone again.”

He looks around. Nods.

“Let’s go, I guess.”

And now really isn’t the time to pop open that barrel of fuckin monkeys. So Billy just nods back. Frowning right along with the guy. Following along with the group down the familiar fucking stairs to Steve’s familiar fucking basement. And once they’re there, for all the buildup, finding the frequency is pretty fucking disappointing. A quick minute with a gadget Dustin calls a digital frequency meter, a quick adjustment to their device, and everything is set. They’re ready.

At least as ready as anyone fucking can be, going up against a monster the size of a warehouse.

Billy swears he sees people staring, smiling, as they make their way through town. Watching them. Craning their heads to stare as the caravan of cars moves in on their warehouse. Their fucked up creation inside it. On their master. He itches to tap in, see what they know, but doesn’t want to drain himself. Knows a fight is coming. Has to be. So he closes his eyes till he feels the car popping into park. Opens them on the warehouse.

“No,” He says. “We need to be able to make a quick getaway.”

“We can’t leave the keys,” Steve says. “The flayed could just drive them away.”

“Fine.” He fucking hates this plan. “Just back in at least.”

Steve scoops up the walkie.

“Everybody back your cars in,” he says, call button depressed.

“Obviously,” Robin replies over the line.

Hop doesn’t bother. Already has his truck in place and is standing outside it, looking up at the massive building.

And though there is movement and time spent in between, Billy can’t remember later what had happened next. The mundane movement from A to B. Suddenly, or so it seems, they’re all in position to go. The signal is given. 

They’re attacking.

Things move quickly and in slow motion. Some seconds blur by while others stick and stretch. The screeches from the monster when the kid’s device is on and bombarding it with excruciating silent sound overlay each image, painfully loud and sure to chase him out of sleep later.

Moments stick, drawn out milliseconds of sound and color and feeling. El’s raised hand as she distracts the monster, drawing its pained attention away from the group of flayed holding Erica. The group of kids surrounding the device, protecting it as waves of flayed run at them; Steve and Joyce and Nancy standing weaponless and defiant, protecting the kids. Lucas’s hard jaw as his parents step out from the group surrounding Erica. Hop’s bellow as he throws himself into the fray. Jonathan's quiet determination and Robin's wicked grin and terrified eyes. Soft bodies giving way before Billy’s fists. The fight to keep control. Keep himself from the kill. Keep in mind that hope for them means hope for him. And his hands are bloody enough. 

Flashes of the monster’s writhing pain, its meaty appendages striking out dangerously. Erica, small in his arms, cursing out the flayed from where he throws her over his shoulder as he calls to the others before bolting outside. The slamming of car doors. The screeching of tires. The screams from the backseat as Steve nearly runs them off the road. The wheel vibrating under his hand as his foot kicks Steve’s aside and finds the brake. The dead weight of Steve as Billy hauls him over and takes over driving. The effort not to stop. Not to look. Don’t stop. Don’t look. Looking makes it real.

Drawn out milliseconds. An eternity of them till he finally shrieks to a stop as close to Hop’s place as he can get. Till he hauls Steve from the car and runs his limp body to the door, borrowing as much strength from those flayed bastards as he fucking needs to tear him through the forest between. Maybe busts the doorframe in his hurry to get Steve inside. And oh well. Who cares. Fucking bill him.

Finally, he lays Steve down on the couch and searches for a first aid kit, not fucking finding anything, tossing the place in a fury till suddenly El is standing there in front of him holding one up, wide sad eyes on him. Not saying a word. He makes himself take it from her gently.

And then he finds himself still. Just breathing, eyes closed. And time flows freely. He’s kneeling beside Steve, and he finally makes himself look.

When he sees Steve looking back, he fucking smiles. Can’t help it. Even if Steve’s face is black and blue and busted up and really only the beginning of the beating the guy just took. Even if those marks being there, other people’s marks, fucking up that pretty face, kind of make Billy want to puke or punch something or both. Even if Steve’s smiling at him now with a mouthful of bloody teeth and amused crinkles around pained eyes and he kind of hates the sight of it. Even so.

“Fine, Asshole,” Billy says through that bullshit automatic smile only Steve can produce. “You win. I’ll teach you how to fucking fight.”

And when Billy says it, Steve smiles wider. Nods.

And even lying there, bruised up and swollen and broken, he manages to look smug.

The bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And So it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back - Hozier


	22. Declaring Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm an asshole to science. Pulled the wrong device from my notes and wrote DB meter instead of digital frequency meter. So now you know that I know if you care, lol, and it's fixed and you can stop judging me now scientists, okay, geez.
> 
> And I'm an asshole twice because I'm going to be gone next week and Jesus Christ when you get to the end of the chapter you're gonna hate me for that.
> 
> But comment anyway? Yeah? And when I'm back I'll make it all better.
> 
> Promise.

Okay.

Steve wants training, he’s gonna fucking get it.

Billy’s even nice about it. At first it starts with—

“Stop watching my hands. Keep your fucking eyes on my face and look for a tell.”

Steve rolls up out of the snow, shivering and frowning. Wipes the slush from his hands and tucks them in his armpits to thaw.

“You don’t have a goddamn tell.”

Wrong-o Stevie-boy. Billy feints a punch with his right, pushes Steve’s chest instead with his left and lands the guy on his ass in the barely-there snow. Again.

“Everyone’s got a tell,” he says, moving in and offering a hand. “Everyone. And what the fuck did I tell you about planting your feet?”

After a while—a long fuckin while—it progresses to—

“Holy shit, you just landed a hit.” And Billy rubs his naked side, both of them shirtless in Steve’s too-warm living room. “Solid. Finally fucking trying, huh?”

Steve grins, and Billy smiles back. Right before he gut-punches Steve, Billy’s tongue resting against his bottom lip playfully as he pulls back, takes in those betrayed, angry eyes. The look in them like Billy’s a fuckin traitor. And that’s funny. He’s doin Stevie here a favor with all this. So he just lets that look go, throws Steve a wink and a long-distance kiss, trying not to laugh at the sheer fucking joy that wells up at the thought of being able to come at Steve full-force soon enough, being met with equal pressure when he does. Equal. And the way Steve’s goin it’s any fucking day now. Real soon now. God, for a real fight with this boy. God, this boy.

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy says. “You’re breakin my heart, Babe. Now,” he goes on, waiting, grinning, “if you’re done moping, wanna maybe stand the fuck up and fucking hit me again?”

“Jesus, stop calling me Babe.” Steve wipes across his mouth, catching his breath. He’s not exactly top form, all those fuckin bruises. But it’s not like Billy knows how to go easy. Fuck it. Steve’s a big boy. And he asked for it. Fucking begged for it.

Now he’s gonna get it.

“You don’t like it, come over here and stop me, Babe.”

Steve comes in smart, controlled. Lands another punch, this time to Billy’s mouth. And Billy licks the blood from the inside of his lip, fucking loving it. Mmm.

“Love you, Babe.”

Steve’s grin goes a little bit feral. And when the next hit lands, it’s better than a “love you, too.”

A week in and Steve’s giving as good as he gets. A week in and the guy’s face has calmed down to a yellow-green mess, the occasional blue-black island rising in the jaundiced-looking expanse of cheek and jaw and brow. Makes it real easy for Billy to pick out his bruises from the flock. Black sheep. And those new bruises make Steve try a little harder at each sparring session, but they’ve got him studying himself in the mirror afterwards too, sometimes for so long that Billy gets bored of it, Steve just transfixed, cataloging his collection.

But it’s fine. Even if Steve’s reflected face in that mirror kind of breaks Billy’s fuckin heart a little wider every time he sees it. Even if it makes Billy feel like he’ll never really know Steve at all. Like inside the bright sunny boy there’s nothing but this endless black fucking cavern that Billy can never even hope to map. Can barely stomach standing in its fucking entrance. But who the fuck ever really knows anyone else anyway? He lets it be. Everyone has their shit. It’s fine.

Until it isn’t. Until Steve hasn’t taken a hit all day and suddenly freezes mid-block, letting Billy’s fist connect full-force with his face.

Purposely. Fucking purposely.

And Billy goes perfectly still, reeling that fist back in close, holding it loosely.

Feeling betrayed. Like Steve, his Steve, had just fucking betrayed him. Made him….

And he’s just standing there, perfectly still, except for the shaking. Needs to keep himself still to keep from exploding. Doesn’t know how his face looks, know how he’s looking at Steve, but knows it ain’t pretty, knows Steve’s slowly withering under the force of it, guilt wrenching his features and mouth open, blocked up with silent explanations.

Excuses.

Billy finally rallies. He keeps control long enough to stride over, pull Steve’s keys from his front pocket, reach the door and then open it to brilliant sun on snow. Pauses. Wants to let Steve know he’s coming back. He is. That he’s not abandoning the fucker. Just needs some time. A few hours to calm the fuck down. But he doesn’t even know how to start explaining. Doesn’t know if he can make his voice work. Tries anyway, managing a hoarse whisper. Hopes it’s enough. Can’t manage to look back.

“Love you,” he whispers to the air outside.

“Billy, I—”

But Billy lets the door slam shut on that shit. Can’t deal with that, with Steve and his fucking black hole broken insides, right now. And so he runs. Like fuckin always. He hops in Steve’s car and he drives. He drives through a town of spies bearing smiles. Drives till the silence starts to get at him again. Till he feels lonely and it makes him think of Steve just like every fucking thing he sees makes him think of Steve and finally he’s stood on a doorstep he wouldn’t have thought he’d ever darken, hand paused midair after a knock.

“Hey,” he says, lowering his arm awkwardly and scrounging up a smile for the woman that answers the door. “Is Robin home?”

From her expression, he’d say his smile isn’t worth the fucking trouble. But hers turns warm as she regards him.

“Robin!” She yells. Loud. “A boy here to see you!”

“What boy?” comes echoing down the stairs, just as loud.

“When you come down, you’ll know, won’t you _Sweetheart_?” Louder yet.

The woman’s smile turns back to Billy, undimmed. She pulls him in with a soft hand on his shoulder and ushers him toward what he soon sees is the kitchen. Plops a plate of cookies down quicker than he can blink. Follows it up with a glass of milk and a pat on the back. Then she leaves him to it, exits the kitchen with the sound of off-tune humming. A squat old lady ambles in moments later.

“You will tell me if you like, da?” she says, seeing Billy and pointing to the plate. “Old family recipe. My daughter always makes wrong.” She nods decisively. Opens a cupboard and starts banging around inside.

“For the hundredth time, your cat died Baba. Three years ago. He’s not in the cupboard.”

Robin enters, following her words into the room, and eyes Billy suspiciously.

“He is hiding,” The old woman says, not bothering to look at Robin to address her, simply waving her away with her head still in the cupboard. “I saw him this morning. What would you know?”

Billy takes a bite of the cookie that’d been held suspended halfway to his mouth since the old woman’s entrance. Spice hits his tongue. Weird. Good though. He takes another bite.

“Fine,” Robin says, turning to Billy. “You need something?”

Billy sets down the cookie. Doesn’t know how to begin, really, thrown off by the banging and the echoed cooing from the old woman in some language he can’t even place.

“Ohhh, never mind, I see,” Robin says, after studying him. Walks over and puts a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “It’s written all over your face.” She slaps the shoulder, hard. “Not to worry. Mom!” She yells again. The banging and cooing continues. “I’m finishing off the bottle! Dire needs!”

A man strolls in and catches the old woman’s attention with a pat on the back. Hands her a stuffed cat, stiff and strangely posed by the taxidermist, its bright glass eyes glinting in the kitchen light. She accepts it with a cackle and with more of those strange coos begins stroking its fur.

“It’ll come out of your allowance,” he says, plucking a partially-full bottle of vodka down off a shelf.

“So be it,” Robin says, sighing dramatically as she accepts the bottle then salutes what must be her dad. She pulls Billy up and marches off, him trailing awkwardly cause she still has hold of his fucking shirt.

They enter what’s clearly her bedroom and she slams the door behind her. Turns and smiles, holding up the bottle.

“Your family is fucking crazy,” Billy says, feet planted, arms crossed, reverting to default and kicking up shit. Old habits.

“Oh, yeah,” Robin says. “They’re great aren’t they?”

“That old lady—”

“My baba,” Robin says, smiling at Billy’s blank look. “Grandma.”

“What language was she speaking?”

“Russian.”

“Right.” Billy says, barely hearing, feeling a tremble start to creep up. A hollow feeling behind his eyes. A weight in his chest. Being in the midst of all this noise and life isn’t making things any fucking easier. Because he just keeps thinking of Steve all alone back in that empty-ass goddamn—

“What the fuck was she saying?”

He says it, not really caring, mostly to distract himself.

“No idea,” Robin says, shrugging and opening the bottle. “I don’t speak Russian. Parents didn’t want me to learn. She’s not supposed to speak it either, my baba, but, well, she forgets.”

She takes a pull. Doesn’t grimace like she should.

Billy reaches out for the bottle once she’s done, hand only trembling a little. Takes it and the weight of it steadies his hand. Takes a pull and the burn of it steadies his nerves. Just a little. Just enough.

“I don’t know what to fucking do,” he all but whispers.

He ignores her outstretched hand. Takes another pull to wash the taste of the words from his mouth.

“My friend,” Robin says, turning from her boombox as music fills the room, “have you come to the right place.”

And fuck it. What options does he have? He hands her the bottle.

“You can’t tell anyone. Fucking ever,” Billy says much later, pleasantly buzzed, head dangling upside down over the side of Robin’s bed, feet propped up crossed comfortably on the wall, just watching the light change through her bedroom window as darkness creeps up on the day.

“Look, I know it wouldn’t seem like it because of, well, everything about me, but I’m pretty darned good at keeping a secret.” She turns to look at him, her hair hovering vertical above her, head dangling beside his. “Call it a talent.”

“Yeah?” Billy asks. “That from all the spy training?”

Billy deflects the slap to his chest, grinning. Then silence falls. And though it’s pretty comfortable, Robin’s face goes all serious. Billy doesn’t know if he’s ever seen her with a truly serious expression before. Remembers he barely fucking knows her.

“No. Not so much. Mostly from all the hiding how very much into girls I am.”

Her eyes stay on Billy, waiting. Probably waiting for some big reaction. Sorry to fuckin’ disappoint. Hard to shock him nowadays. The corner of his mouth hitches up a little, aided by gravity.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “That’ll do it, huh?”

“I think,” She says. “That what you just told me? you should have been telling Steve.”

“He knows,” Billy says, stretching. “I mean, he’s gotta—”

“Sometimes, Dingus,” she says, hand finding his shoulder after a few tries and patting it patronizingly, “Boys are stupid. Sometimes they need to be bashed over the head with something before they’ll see it.”

Billy rolls his eyes. Because she didn’t have to be such a goddamn asshole about it. Takin his fucking job. But as soon as he’s sobered up a little—while Robin’s Dad makes him coffee and extolls the virtues of jazz as Billy drinks it, while Robin’s grandma pets her stuffed cat and forces him to finish every single cookie he’d left on his plate, while Robin, chin propped on hands across from Billy at the table, smiles on the scene indulgently, evilly—as soon as he’s fine to drive, he goes home.

Goes home to Steve.

Every light in the house is on when he drives up; the giant structure this fucking beacon in the night. Warmer and more welcoming from the outside than it is within. False advertising.

Only warm where Steve touches it. Like Billy.

The front door is still unlocked when he tries it, so that’s his first fear taken care of. He’s not kicked out. The house is quiet. Its brightness strange paired with so much silence.

“Steve?”

Nothing. Shit. Knew he shouldn’t have left the fucker alone to sit around brooding. Getting more and more pissed at Billy for taking off.

He stalls. He’s a fucking coward, okay? Swings by Franklin’s cage and makes sure the little dude has food and water. Gives him a couple treats. Finally he takes Franklin out, props the rat on his shoulder like they’d been practicing and resigns himself to searching room by room.

Can’t even get mad at the guy for being pissed. Billy had bailed when he needed help the most. The guy was obviously fucked up about all this shit. The bruises. Of course he’s gonna try—

Billy should’ve seen it comin, is all he’s sayin.

“Steve?”

Nothing on first floor. And as he’s climbing the stairs, this fucking sick feeling rises in his stomach at the continued silence. At how loud it is in his ears. He walks up the first few steps and is running by the time he reaches the top of the staircase, totally skipping the last couple steps, scooping up Franklin to shelter him against his chest as he accelerates. To let the feel of his tiny little soft warm body sap away some of the fucking terror that has him wrapped tight and choking.

“Steve! You answer me, goddammit!”

Silence. Fucking silence.

He flings open every door, calling Steve’s name uselessly into every fucking empty room, more desperate each time. This one. Fine, then this one. Okay, so it'll be the next. Runs out of rooms and just freezes, not knowing what the fuck comes next. Remembers the basement and bolts for it, swiping the wetness from his eyes so he can see to sprint down the treacherous fucking steps. Nothing there. Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

“ _Steve_!”

Billy can’t yell any louder. He’s bent double with the force of Steve’s name exiting him.

“Fuck,” he sobs, sinking to the floor, just cradling the little rat. “What the fuck am I— What the fuck— The—”

The doorbell rings and Billy’s halfway up the stairs before he even thinks to rise. Running down the hall and into the entrance way, sliding to a messy stop and throwing the door wide, hopeful.

Only to be greeted by the empty night.

Only to jump at a knock from behind. From the living room. From the sliding glass doors he comes to a stop before, squeezing Franklin too hard and being bitten for his lapse in care. The rat drops to the floor and Billy doesn’t even notice.

_GIVE HER BACK_

The words, still wet and dripping, are backlit by the pool outside. Red stains the glass, tinting the living room a sick purple where the blue light passes through the blood. And Tommy stands, gore-soaked hands on hips and grimace on his face, so close to the door his breath should be fogging the glass. The bastard waves. Throws Billy a dark smile before turning to run. Disappearing.

And Billy chases. Barely takes the time to slide the door open as he exits, pulling on all the borrowed strength he can steal. Off into the dark woods and on Tommy’s ass.

But Tommy’s pulling too. Laughing as he gallops off into the night, barely dodging trees, heedless of whipping branches and snagging shrubs. And Billy’s distracted. Or too focused. Got tunnel vision. Doesn’t notice the rope snapping up to clothesline him till it’s too late. Till he’s spinning backwards, a view full of stars blurring by as he whips, head-first, into the ground so hard that by the time he wakes up, he’s alone.

“Steve,” he whispers.

Feels like staying there. Just laying there forever. Just dying there, alone. Just rotting there where no one will ever find him.

It’s what he deserves.

But he gets up anyway. Fucking staggers to his feet, slips and slides and falls and careens from trunk to trunk till the beacon of Steve’s house shines bright through the trees. Till he makes his way back to the open door. To the couch, where he sprawls, just staring at those now-smeared words written in that slowly-freezing blood.

Remembers Franklin and crawls the room, looking for him, trying to make his voice soft to call for him, eyes pulling ever-back to that fucking door. To those fucking words.

He doesn’t find him. God, the house is fucking huge. He could be anywhere. And the door had been open.

“Fuck!” he roars, rising and kicking the giant fucking couch across the room. “Fuuuuuck!”

He marches back to the front door. Out the door to Steve’s car. Drives the car to Hop’s cabin. Bypasses the cabin to stalk toward the shed. Throws the shed door wide and looks down at her.

Carol.

_GIVE HER BACK_

And she smiles up at him. Dirty and tied and finally laughing at him, this unhinged fucked up mocking laugh, as if she didn’t quite get the concept. As if she’d never been fucking human.

“You got our message,” She says then, still smiling. “We got your boyfriend.”

Billy stalks forward.

“We got your boyfriend,” she singsongs.

His fists tighten and release. Tighten and release.

She laughs again. Laughs in his face.

His mind is blank. His feelings fucking gone off with his conscience somewhere, abandoning him like he’d abandoned Steve. And now he’s left here, all alone in his cold empty mind.

Who knows what he’ll do. He reaches for her.

“No,” he hears from behind him. Feels some invisible pressure holding him in place. Dragging him back out the shed to watch its door slam shut of its own accord.

El. She walks around in front of Billy. Puts a light hand on his chest.

“No.”

She shakes her head slowly. Studies him. Those big brown eyes thawing the fucking ice that’d crusted his emotions, leaving his eyes blurring as Steve’s absence really fucking hits him. Just gut-checks him. And as soon as she releases him, he’s sunk down to his knees and unable to breathe again. Fucking gasping for air. Dying, maybe. And he smiles at that. And it’s not gonna get better, either, never gonna, cause Steve ain’t around to make it fucking better.

He’s gone.

Those big brown eyes find Billy again. El, lowering herself down to his level, hand on his shoulder now and face sober.

“It will be okay.”

Billy shakes his head. Gasps for breath. No it fucking won’t.

He's gone.

Her hand doesn’t move, hot there on his shoulder. Persistent. Her eyes remain firm on his.

“It will all be okay,” she says. Like she fucking knows anything.

In the background, Carol’s laughter just keeps on coming.

He’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And So it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s Over – Billy Eilish


	23. Followers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh, I missed writing. One should never take a vacation from things they love. 
> 
> Now, at long last, my glorious and triumphant return is at hand! Rejoice!
> 
> Or, you know, whatever.
> 
> And let me hear from you in the comments. New and properly broken in alike. All are welcome. Because I missed you guys, too.

Steve’s gone. He’s really fucking gone.

The bathroom is so dark that it doesn’t really matter if Billy’s eyes are open or closed as he sits knees-to-chest, fully clothed in the empty bathtub. No moon out there beyond the black window glass. No light bouncing back down to the world off low-hanging winter clouds. Nothing. And sitting here in the dark, sitting with his ears covered, it’s like he’s listening for the ocean in a conch shell. The blood rushing to his ears with each heartbeat mirrors the lap of ocean waves. Like watching the ocean as a kid when the blue skin of the Pacific was touched pastel by the sun setting on a good day and the beauty of that light perfectly masked the dangers waiting below. Down there in the dark depths. Unknowable.

He sees that ocean again now. Focuses on the pretty lie of it. On his steady heartbeat.

Yeah, still has that fucking beating heart. Guess he’s alive after all. Guess he should be fucking thankful. 

He runs his hands up through his hair and cradles his head. Pulls tighter into himself.

Wants Steve. Shuts out the night noises again. Shuts out the forest and listens for the ocean.

Four o’clock had come and gone and he’d been snapped awake by some internal clock. Woke up and found himself whipping his head around looking for Steve a solid ten seconds before sleep fucked off enough to let him think. Let him grasp the obvious.

Steve’s gone. And Billy’s up and gasping in the dark for no fucking reason.

Gone. And it’s all Billy’s fault. So things are real fucking simple. Billy has to get him back is all there is to it. 

He pulls his hands from his ears. Cancels out the static sound of his insides and wills a plan to strike him. Because all he has to do is go get Steve back. Simple. Gotta come up with something good. Good enough to fool the monsters again somehow. Some new trick. Easy, right? Fucking cake. Hahaha.

He presses his hands back to his ears.

And the day somehow creeps up on him without him noticing any gradual change. The burning touch of the sun has him pulling himself forward two inches. Has him in a game of tag for the next half-hour because he refuses to just fucking get up. Because he still hasn’t come up with anything and getting out of this fucking tub before he does feels like admitting defeat.

He drags himself closer to the rusted faucet. His mind remains fucking blank; gummy with lack of sleep.

“Okaaay. Do I want to know what you’re doing?”

Billy’s slow to register. Slow to look up and see who’s seeing him like this. Lucas meets his gaze, hand uncertain on the doorknob.

“No.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Lucas says, hand falling from the knob and sending the door squeaking a little further open. “Rhetorical question.”

Billy just sits there. After a bit he realizes he never bothered to look away from Lucas and has been dead-eyed staring all this time. Great. And the kid’s still there. Finally he shifts his weight in the doorway and sighs. Rolls his eyes and throws Billy an exasperated look.

“So what are you doing?”

The sun touches Billy’s back again and he lets it burn there. Refuses to move again.

“Duh.” A voice cuts the silence. “He’s moping. Like he’s _been_ doing since he came in last night.”

Billy’s eyes move sluggishly toward this new witness. God, just get up and fucking leave already if it bugs you so much. Stop being so pathetic.

“Really, Erica?” Lucas says, turning on the girl.

“What?” Erica leans into the doorframe beside her brother, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “Just telling it like it is.” She moves a hand to her hip and looks down at Billy scornfully. “Anyway, what’s he gonna do? Mope harder?”

Lucas turns to her fully. “You can’t just—”

Erica ignores him. Walks full-on into the bathroom and clears her throat, arms crossed again. “Excuse me, but some people around here actually take showers every day.” She throws on a sweet smile. “So if you could find somewhere else to be, that’d be great.” Shoos him with a gesture, still smiling.

Billy stands. Must do it too fast, too violently, because Lucas is quick stepping forward with a “hey.”

“What?” Billy says, an edge he doesn’t feel automatically creeping into his voice. “Think I’m gonna do something?”

And Lucas glares.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Like that fucking night with him and the bookcase wasn’t a thousand fucking years ago. Like it even fucking matters anymore. Like they don’t have bigger things to fucking worry about.

Steve.

Gone.

His next breath pulls in tight. All his work at calming down for fucking nothing.

“Yeah, well,” he says, glaring right back, “I don’t beat up little girls anymore, as a rule, so you can go ahead and untwist your panties about it.”

Can feel his face go sour at the taste of the words. Not what he fucking should have said. Not what he meant.

Screw it. He can’t make himself care. He can’t think.

“All yours,” he tells Erica, stepping out of the tub and throwing her a salute that gets him an exaggerated eye roll. Looks like her brother when she does it. 

He turns away, steps up to Lucas.

“If anybody wakes up and gives a shit I’ll be outside.” Turns back to Erica. “Moping.”

He needs a cigarette. So he leaves it at that, retreats outside, good on his word. Is lighting up when he hears the crunch of snow behind him, breaking the butter-sunlight silence of the still morning.

“You’re such an asshole.”

Lucas. Fucking Jesus, Kid. Take a hint.

“But you saved my stupid sister. And me, before with that monster—you saved me and Max. And I don’t get it. Like, why you did it. But I guess I don’t have to. So anyway, thanks, I guess. Even though you’re still an asshole.”

Billy nods, takes a drag and pollutes the crisp, breezeless air. Doesn’t have anything to give back in this conversation. Doesn’t really want it to be a conversation.

“Max told me about your dad. About why you attacked me or whatever.”

And there’s just that hint of skepticism. That old resentment that he can’t blame the kid for. That he doesn’t even really feel sorry about. Cause Lucas is right. He is an asshole.

“Yeah,” Billy says, because it seems like he should fucking say _something_. “Probably could’ve handled that better.”

And Lucas laughs coldly. One sour note of it. Puts his hands on his hips and looks away, licking his lips, before looking back at Billy like Billy’s an idiot.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t be hard.”

“Listen.” Billy leans up on the nearby hood of Steve’s car. Blessed fucking cold from the metal seeps in past his jeans and makes it easier to think. ”I know you don’t like me. And that’s fine. Don’t really give a shit. I did what I thought I had to ta keep Max safe. I’d do it again.”

Billy gauges the kid’s reaction and sees him waiting. Speak your peace and we’ll see, those eyes say. Explain, they say.

“My dad,” Billy says, hoping this’ll get the kid to fuck off, “is every shit thing you think I am. He’s a racist asshole good-ol-boy with an angry streak the size of the fucking Grand Canyon. And I couldn’t stop him then. I didn’t—” Steve pops into his head again. Gone. The terror chokes off Billy’s breath. “If Neil thought, for one second, that Max was dating you,” Billy says, rallying, “well, you fucking saw me that night you all ambushed me at Steve’s. That was her beating I was wearing. That was him hearing a fucking rumor. Didn’t even see anything. And that was getting off light. It was a fucking warning.”

Lucas swallows and Billy can see the kid’s brain is forcing him to try those bruises on Max for size. The bloody lip. The fucking concussion. He shakes his head against the images.

“But she goes home. Every night she’s been going—”

Billy sizes Lucas up, standing there, worried about his sister’s domestic situation while there are honest-to-God monsters out there just waiting to fucking kill them all. This kid. Jesus. Billy’s tired down to his fucking soul with all this shit, and here’s this kid still—

“I took care of it,” he says.

Lucas finds that skepticism again. Aims it at Billy.

“Took care of it? Just like that? You couldn’t have just _taken care of it_ back then instead of attacking me?”

Okay, so fuck this kid.

“Nope.”

Silence. But Lucas doesn’t leave. Just stands there, staring, like he’s waiting for something.

“Look,” Billy says, really really done with this bullshit, “if you’re lookin for an apology, you’re gonna be fucking disappointed. I did what I had to and I don’t give a shit what you think of me. I just—I need you to fuck off now, Kid, okay? I need some time—”

Lucas scoffs.

“What you need is a plan.”

Billy closes his eyes. Did he mention he hates this kid?

“Do you _have_ a fucking plan?”

“No,” Lucas says, shrugging. “But I have an idea.”

Later, after a noisy breakfast and a few death glares from Hop for drinking the last of the coffee, Billy sits cross-legged in front of a TV blaring static, staring into blinking calm-brown eyes. El takes his hand. Maybe to reassure him.

“Don’t worry. I’ll bring you back.”

From the black. That in-between place on the skin of that dark ocean with the starless sky hovering close above. Safe and warm and hollow and full of dangerous life.

“Fine.”

El releases his hand to tie her blindfold around her head. Billy just closes his eyes, leaving all the heavy lifting to her. Definitely doesn’t jump when her hand finds his again, scalding.

She pulls him along behind. Slipping through the cracks. He opens his eyes on the black.

His shoes are dry as they slosh through the water at his feet, trailing her steps. His eyes are searching. Right, left, up. Anywhere but down.

“Can you feel it too?” he asks El, because he needs to know she can. He needs to know. “Down there? Just… waiting?”

She squeezes his hand. Smiles back at him softly.

“Yes.”

“What the fuck is it, do you think?”

Like she’ll fucking know. She just shakes her head. Keeps walking. And Billy follows. Drops it. Keeps his eyes off the bottomless ground. Anywhere but down.

“There.”

Billy follows her pointing arm. Sees the light shining out in the dark.

Steve.

Billy has to stop himself from sprinting to him. From dropping El’s hand. His lifeline.

It’s Steve.

He pulls her along, the both of them splashing noisily over.

Steve paces. Not violently, like some beast in a cage. Not the way Billy would. Steve takes measured steps, back and forth along a ten foot stretch of space, hugging himself against a shiver, dried blood staining the front of his sweater a rusty brown. He whispers something to himself as he moves and his eyes keep focusing in on one spot. They move back to it with each pass. Billy moves to intersect that glance, breath coming in shaky when Steve’s eyes look through his. 

“Steve.”

Steve’s steps falter. Those eyes find Billy’s in the pause.

“Billy?” Steve whispers, too hopeful. Too hopeful and he knows it. Is quick to scoff down that hope. “Yeah, good one Steve. He’s gonna come busting through the door any second, all white knight. Stupid stupid stupid.” He grabs at his hair and pulls for a second, frustrated, then smooths it back. “You’ve got this, though. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. Think. Just think for a fucking second.”

Steve falls back to lean against a wall that’s suddenly fucking there. Brought into being at Steve’s touch, its metal painted a dusty white; dirty and rust-spotted. Steve slides down it to slump onto the liquid floor with a splash and ripple.

“Right.” Steve whispers, sarcastic, expression becoming that dead fucking thing Billy’d seen on him before. “Who are you kidding?”

Steve pulls up his knees and buries his mouth in the crook of his arm, staring off into nothing. And Billy can hear him saying something. Repeating something. Mumbling some muffled something out into his arm. So Billy leans in to hear. To try to make it out. And Steve tips his head back to make it real easy for him. Stares up at an invisible ceiling and rips out Billy’s guts with a feeble, just there voice—

“If you should ever leave me—” Billy barely hears the familiar words. Moves in closer. Almost close enough to touch. To steal him back. God, give him back.

“Though life would still go on, believe me—”

“Oh fuck. Fuck, Steve.” Billy swallows. Lifts a hand but is afraid to touch. To disturb the reflection.

“The world could show nothing to me—” And Steve’s voice is trembling as he sings. And there’s a fucking tear falling down that dead-blank fucking face and any hope is gone outta those big brown eyes.

“Steve. I’m coming. I’m fucking coming for you. Stop fucking singing and trust that.”

A pause in the song. Steve darting a glance around him, not really looking.

“So what good would living do me?” Steve sings, chuckling darkly, wetly.

“Wake the fuck up! I’m here! Right here!” Billy goes to shake him. Regrets it the second his hand moves through that shoulder, swirling Steve’s image like smoke. Erasing the shocked-wide big brown wet fucking eyes.

“Shit,” Billy whispers, as Steve’s image dissipates. “Shit. Okay,” he says, standing, feeling that small hand in his again and realizing it’d been there all along. “Take me back.”

He turns to El. Opens his eyes to see her pulling off her blindfold, to find himself cramped up and cross-legged across from her in the cabin, TV blaring away static beside them. He stands. Paces himself, taking a good few laps of the room.

“Right,” he says, stopping, frowning. “Right.” He holds out his hand to El again. “Boost my signal. I’ve got a plan.”

“She can’t.”

Jonathan stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the day.

“Look,” he says, Nancy trailing in behind, eyes red-rimmed. “I know we need to get Steve back. But we need to get those gates closed _now_. We need to find them all and get them down to one and be ready so we can stop this thing.” Nancy breaks off and goes to Mike’s side, pulling him away. Jonathan only pauses a moment to watch her. “And she’s the only one that can do that,” he goes on. “She’s got to save her energy. She’s already drained from yesterday. And the day before.”

“I can help,” El says, eyebrows meeting. “Do both. I can help get Steve. I’m stronger now.”

“El,” Mike says, voice shaking. “We need to stop it. We just need to stop it, okay? You need to—”

He stops talking, voice too shaky. El moves in to comfort him and Jonathan walks up to Billy.

“Their house is empty. There was a lot of blood.” He ducks his head. “I’m sorry. But it’s Lucas’s parents. Now… more. Their baby sister… And I know. Steve’s gone too. And I’m sorry. But this won’t stay contained in the town for long. The flayed won’t wait around forever. They’re coming. Soon. And we need to be ready. We need her closing those gates.”

“I can’t fucking do it without her. Every time I tap in—”

“Tommy. Yeah. Look, I’m sorry, but it’s up to you. And honestly…. No, never mind.”

“What?” Billy asks, eyes sharp on him at that fucking tone, knowing what he’s about to say.

“You know what. Maybe the best way to help Steve isn’t trying to rescue him. We could use your help—”

“ _You_ know what?” Billy says, nodding. “Fuck you.”

He walks toward the still-open door.

“Where are you going?” Jonathan asks, not following.

And Billy doesn’t even bother answering. Just throws the guy the finger on the way out. Fuck you twice.

You know what? It’s fine. He’ll just do everything himself. Just like fucking old times. Just like fucking always.

He walks off into the woods, not really paying attention to direction. Just feeling out with his new, un-asked-for senses. Feeling the web, fucking enormous now. Only able to focus on specific parts, though. Not strong enough to see the whole. Only able to search in small segments. Billy sits down absently in the snow, narrowing his concentration. Conserving his strength.

Gotcha.

That wall Steve leaned up against had looked pretty fucking familiar. Suspiciously industrial. Almost like Steve was in a warehouse or something. Like the only fucking place the flayed could think to stash Steve was at the foot of that monster they’re savin up for a rainy day. Same as they’d done with Erica. Not very creative of them.

There’s a small window in the door that this particular flayed is looking at. Standing guard in front of. And Steve’s face keeps flashing out of it. Pacing again, must be.

A goddamn improvement over curling up in a corner. Giving up. And he can see it as Steve’s eyes flash past again. That tiny bit of hope Billy had tried to plant. Good. Good.

Keep it up.

Billy takes up the strings on this particular flayed. Seats himself in nicely, getting its attention.

“Open the door,” he tells it. And it walks over. Grabs the handle. The door doesn’t even creak as it swings wide.

Billy takes full control.

“Stevie,” he whispers, raising the thing’s hands. “It’s me.”

“Billy? Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Do I look fucking serious to you?”

Steve stares, eyes wide.

“You look like someone’s grandma right now, man.”

Billy rolls his eyes.

“Shut the fuck up and follow granny. I’m getting you out of here.”

Steve lets out a breath. Smiles, eyes shiny.

“Well?” he says, finally. “Let’s hustle. Ma’am.”

The area is clear. Billy had just checked. He motions Steve to follow and they move in silence through the large space above the beast.

There’s no resistance. None. Where the fuck is everyone?

“This is too easy,” he says.

Then he’s hit with the pain again. Familiar. And he fights against it. He always fights against it. But the fucker is so strong that fighting gets him nowhere. He feels the old lady’s hand snap out and crush down on Steve’s arm. Hears Steve’s surprised yell that escalates along with the pain. He clings on, still fighting, as Tommy reaches into the old lady’s brain and rips control away from him.

Fuck.

Steve.

“Oh, your little Stevie’s going to be fine, Billy. He’s joining the club. He’ll be healed up in no time.”

Billy hears a muffled crack and knows it’s the sound of Steve’s arm breaking under that hand. Under the pressure of that grip. Can’t fucking stop it happening. Can’t even fucking leave this old woman’s mind. Tommy’s too strong. He’s just too fucking strong.

Should have fucking known.

“I told you to give Carol back to me,” Billy hears. “You should have listened, shouldn’t you? Now, I think I’ll take Steve from you. Little Stevie. Really take him. I’ll give him to _it_. Make him one of us. Make him kill you, maybe.” The old woman shrugs around them both. “Who knows.”

Steve’s screams cut off halfway down the stairs as his body bumps along, drug mercilessly by his broken arm. Passed out. And Billy can’t do anything but watch. Is forced to watch as Steve’s slack head bounces down the rest of the stairway. As his sneaker is lost on the slide across the room toward that _thing_. As its fucking tentacle extends, reaching for Steve.

The second it makes contact, Billy feels something snap inside himself. Feels his rage open something up inside him. Burn it away. Expand outward. It unfurls. His mind. The power. He feels everything. Every connection in that moment. All of the flayed in the great wide net. And he pulls in power from _everyone_. _Everywhere_.

He knocks Tommy the fuck out of the body with it. Runs at Steve, snapping that fucking tentacle in half after pulling it dripping out of Steve’s throat, its claws slipping out of his face.

Then he scoops Steve up, runs out of the warehouse. Out of _its_ domain. Knows it won’t follow. Knows it’s not ready yet.

The crowd of flayed outside part when he tells them to part. They pull up the car he tells them to bring. Drive Steve safely through the overrun town, Billy watching through a hundred eyes as Steve passes. Drop him safely under the trees and go the fuck away when Billy tells them to. Stay away.

Billy rises on steady legs from his seat in the snow. Walks through the woods, not paying attention to direction. Following the new pull, trailing the new string connecting him to Steve.

He reaches Steve just as eyes are fluttering open and the bones of Steve’s arm are snapping back into place and healing. The cuts from the claws that had clamped around Steve’s face close as if they were never there. Steve wipes away the blood. Stares up at Billy.

The look on that face has Billy wanting to burn the whole fucking town to ash.

“Follow me,” he commands. He doesn’t say another fucking word till they reach the cabin. What’s the point? He’d only be talking to himself.

Max is waiting, worried, outside the cabin. She shivers against the cold, walking in place to keep her circulation going. Too fucking stubborn to wait inside.

“Go get that thing you fucking shocked me with. Now.”

She takes one look at Steve trailing behind and disappears, returning a minute later with the familiar piece of machinery.

“Do it.”

He can’t watch. Closes his eyes and follows Tommy’s thread to find him out cold in a parking lot, back in his own fucking body.

 _Wake up_.

A silent command. Tommy’s eyes fly open, out of his control, but he quickly takes that control back. Glares up at the flayed standing over him, at Billy looking down out of those eyes.

“You want Carol?” Billy asks with the voice of a fifty-year-old banker with poor eyesight and fallen arches. “Come and fucking get her.”

And he steps back as the car a 36-year-old preschool teacher with a peanut allergy is driving, runs Tommy the fuck over with a satisfying double PLOPTHUNK. As red washes the asphalt.

“Asshole.”

And Billy opens his eyes on the cabin, not caring that Tommy will heal in a matter of minutes. Still worth the fucking look on his face. Still felt good.

He turns his head to find Steve, who looks up at him and meets his gaze, those invisible bits of I AM brushing against each other, him and Steve, at the eye contact.

God, he loves the guy. And Steve is there behind those eyes. So there.

“So,” Billy says, offering Steve a hand. “On a scale of one to ten, how was my rescue?”

Steve hauls Billy down violently by the offered hand. Warm in his. Not hot. Not anymore. The same temperature. The same stuff.

When Billy lands, Steve rolls him over and punches him in the face. Hovers over him a moment, blurred in Billy’s pain-wet eyes, what might be a smile on his face, before leaning down and kissing him.

“Thanks,” Steve whispers, pulling away. “It was fucking horrible.”

“Well, I guess that confirms it,” Max says. Billy looks up to meet her half smile. She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to.

“Shut up, Twerp.”

“Not likely, Creep.”

Billy feels the army he’s set up ring the perimeter. Feels Tommy frantically recruiting. Ripping as many as he can from Billy’s grasp. But not as many as he hopes.

Feels the bastard’s impotent anger rising and grins.

They just may win this fucking thing, yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And So it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby - Hozier


	24. Shadow on Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got perfect fucking weather for the ambiance of this chapter. There's just something about being inside, warm and safe and watching the wild tempest rage out the window. Love the ambiance of winter in this story. It's just soo moody and dramatic. You know. Not like anyone I know.
> 
> On that note, I'll look forward to hearing what you think in the comments! Kind of live for your feedback. Ahem. Maybe just a little.

The door is open. 

A dusting of blown snow swirls in through the open sliding door, fine powder from the latest fall, puffing in every so often and melting on the slowly-cooling floor near the door; wet sugar.

Billy lies in the dark living room. Still. Silent. Peaceful. Fucking peaceful. Guess he’s made peace with the quiet finally for real. Made peace with peace.

At least in small doses. He sits up with a huff.

“This is taking fucking forever. He’s not coming back. He’s a wild fucking rat. Was probably just waiting for his chance.”

“Shut up. He’ll come.”

Billy turns his head to better aim his sarcasm at Steve, who’s just fucking sprawled there on the couch.

“Sure he will. He’ll come and we’ll beat the monster and get everyone’s family back, too. We’ll even get to be human again, sit by a nice toasty fire sipping fucking hot cocoa. Poof. Spell broken. And we’ll ride off into the fucking sunset in my fucking car, you know, an apology gift from my dad. “Sorry for being an asshole all these years, son! It’s all yours!” And then you know what? We’ll get married. Big gay wedding. And everyone will cheer. How bout that. Happy fucking ending.”

Steve slides down off the couch and seems unaffected by Billy’s glare. Scoots toward Billy, almost close enough to touch. Just sits there, legs crossed, staring at his hands, arms loose in his lap. Billy stretches his arm out, hand sliding the floor, but can’t quite reach. Just leaves it there, reaching.

“Yeah, I’m worried about him too.”

Billy lets out an exasperated TSS of air and turns back to the cage that’s just sitting there in the blue pool light, those fucking words still there on the doors beyond, because fuck cleaning up Steve’s blood right now. Fuck that. That brown crusted mess still there, unreadable, layered and flaking on the parallel panes of glass. Still wet and red in his mind. The cage, Franklin’s cage, just sitting there like some fucking picked-clean skeleton, open and waiting and full of the rat’s favorite foods. It’d been there all day. All day while they helped the others in the woods.

It’s still empty. Undisturbed.

Billy reels his arm back into himself, away from Steve, who hadn’t bit at the bait. Him and Steve’d been trying not to crush the eggshells underfoot all day, just fucking tiptoeing around each other ever since that one triumphant kiss, that overflow of thank-fucking-God after Steve’s rescue.

Feels like they’re dancing around on top of some big-ass unexploded nuke.

And Steve won’t touch him. Is being all fucking weird. Distant.

Billy stands up. Needs to move. Starts pacing. Remembers Steve pacing in that fucking tiny room and stops pacing. Scrubs at his face with both hands and groans.

“You’re gonna scare him off,” Steve says. Calm. Watching him. The ghost of that fucking deadness Billy had seen earlier still clinging to his face; this goddamn residue that the shower and clean clothes hadn’t managed to wash away.

Billy just laughs. Feels like shaking some sense into the guy. Feels like crushing the guy in a hug and trying to explain how fucking scared he’d been. How fucking terrified.

Scare him off. Cute. That ship’s sailed, Amigo. Franklin’s fucking bailed.

Steve had stepped out of the shower all clean pale skin. It’s why they’d come. Why they’d both come and left the others huddled in the woods, in that tiny cabin. Steve needed a shower. Needed clothes. His hair is still wet from it. Maybe freezing in the cold of the living room. They wouldn’t fucking know till they felt it crunchy under their fingers. Billy eyes Steve’s hair, wanting to touch it. Steve had stepped out of that cold shower and stepped up to the fogless mirror, not paying any attention to Billy’s eyes on him. He’d stared into the mirror and frowned at himself. Turned this way and that. All closed up. All un-fucking-fathomable as the bottom of the ocean.

And Billy wanted to slap him. Wanted to shove him into a wall and grab that chin and force those fucking eyes to look at him. See him right here.

Right here. I’m fucking right here. Just look. Just come out of your fucking head and pay attention.

Stop hiding.

Stop hiding from me.

But he’d kept quiet. Watched Steve watching himself. Looking for bruises that were healed up and gone. That he’d never be able to keep again, maybe. Not now that he was a bonafide monster.

Just like Billy.

And Steve had frowned into the glass. Frowned and stared. And he’d ignored Billy.

And now Billy’s teeth are about to fucking crack from all the goddamn holding back. His legs hurt from all the dancing. And the bomb ticks away underfoot.

TICK

“Seriously, come sit down.”

TOCK

“Fine.”

Billy walks over. Stares down at Steve below and says a big ol’ fuck you to the thought of sitting down. Of carrying on just waiting for things to blow.

TICK

Better to just pull the fucking pin himself.

TOCK

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Steve looks up, a little surprised.

BOOM

“What—”

“—the fuck is your problem. You heard me. Why the fuck aren’t you talking to me?”

“Pretty sure I just—”

“Shut the fuck up with that bullshit.”

And Steve laughs. Stands up and meets Billy’s eye, this wicked little grin on his face.

“Well,” he says. “Should I shut the fuck up or talk to you?” He tilts his head. Hands on his hips. Almost close enough to touch.Too far to reach. Just like he’d been all day. “What the fuck is _your_ problem?”

“You know what I mean!” Billy says, stepping forward. Stepping forward again because Steve moved back to match. “You’re not even fucking here. You’re in there.”

He points at Steve’s head.

“And I’m out here. And it’s like you don’t even want me around.”

“Oh. So now you want to be around.”

And Billy opens his mouth to throw something back at the cold, quiet statement and is frozen like that, mouth agape, when Steve’s words actually process. Steve takes advantage of the opening.

“Didn’t see you around when I was sitting here fucking alone, again, after you broke your fucking promise and took off.

Steve stops backing up. Now Billy mirrors his movement. Freezes in place. Mouth still waiting for his brain to find some fucking words. Some kind of comeback. Fucking anything to stop Steve bombarding him with all the accusations he’d been throwing at himself the whole time Steve was gone.

“Funny, I didn’t see you when Tommy broke in with a few of his buddies and held me down while he cut me open and used my blood as finger-paint either. Must’ve missed you.”

And Steve steps forward. And Billy’s brain senses the threat. Throws words at his mouth to try to ward it off. Look big and maybe scare it off.

“You made me fucking hit you!” Billy says back, voice just shy of too loud. He tries to reign it in. Be cool. But it only kinda works. “After everything I fucking told you you made me—”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Steve says. Leans closer into Billy’s space. “You like hitting me. I like you hitting me. What’s the big fucking deal?”

“In a fight!” It comes out full volume. “Not—” He loses his thought, too fucking pissed to form anything close to coherent. “What you fucking did to me— You—”

“You fucking abandoned me!” Steve yells, stepping right into Billy’s personal space and giving him a sharp shove. “'I’ll never do that to you' he says, and then not even two weeks later!” He stalks forward and shoves Billy again, hard fingers gouging tender ribs.

“Fuck that—I didn’t!” Billy steps forward, regaining the ground the shove had cost him, crowds up to meet Steve whose breath is hard and fast. Whose pupils are dilated. “I came back. I came back and you were—”

“Kidnapped. Fucking waiting to die in some goddamn dirty storage closet! Alone! Alone _again_!”

And Steve punches Billy, who hadn’t seen it comin. Who takes the hit to his jaw and stumbles back a few paces at the strength of it. Has to shake off the disorientation it brings. Holy shit the kid can hit.

Steve stands there. Breath heavy. Eyes pleading.

Fucking sonova—

Billy punches Steve back. Not even caring that he sees Steve move into the path of the fist as it comes. And Steve knees him in the stomach in his turn, Billy grabbing up his shirt for more leverage as he winds up to hit Steve again. They tumble into the wall, cracking the drywall. They fall over the couch to land on the floor and flow right into grappling. Pin down. Hold still. Stay where I put you. Give up. Give up. Give it up Stevie you’re mine. I’m here and you’re mine so fucking act like it.

It’s all growls and snarls. All elbows and chokeholds. A bite from Steve. A sharp crescendo of pain. Dig the nails in. Throw him off with a headbutt. Stay down, Stevie. Give it up and stay down.

“You—first!”

Must’ve said it out loud.

Steve is under him. Fucking hair in Billy’s hand and one wrist pinned while the other hand claws at his side, pushing, trying to flip Billy’s weight offa him. His hips keep bucking up into Billy’s fight-hard dick. It’s beginning to be a fucking problem.

Fuck it. What the fuck were they fighting for anyway?

So he kisses Steve. And it’s really more of an extension of the fight. Hard and not all that pleasurable, but gratifying as fuck. Especially when Steve’s nails loosen in Billy’s side. When he stills under Billy. When he stays puddled limp under Billy when Billy breaks the kiss. Pulls back to look down at him.

“Never left you,” Billy says, quiet. “Just went out. Don’t know why you thought I wouldn’t come back.” And Billy wipes a bit of smeared blood from Steve’s lip, not knowing if the cut had been his own or Steve’s. “Said I loved you, didn’t I?”

“That’s what you said?” Steve huffs out a silent laugh and shakes his head, all shades of blue in the dark living room. Skin like a shadow on snow. Eyes like navy ink. Streaked and spattered in blood as dark as the night sky five minutes before the first hint of dawn. Billy grinds into Steve. With a purpose.

“That’s what I said.”

Kisses up Steve’s neck and grinds in again as Steve bares it to him like some animal showing submission, letting Billy kiss up its column. Billy licks a wet trail up under Steve’s jaw, runs lips over his chin and kisses him again, hand in Steve’s hair wrenching those lips closer. Steve moans into the kiss.

So good for him. So good.

“Well,” Steve says, breaking the kiss, “maybe you should speak the fuck up next time.”

Billy tugs at Steve’s hair again and Steve bucks up, hissing in a breath and exhaling a needy little huff at the sting of it.

Steve’s fingers trail down Billy’s side. Light. Running the border between just fucking right and ticklish over Billy’s healing cuts and bruises. That hand slips down to cup Billy’s dick through his jeans.

“So,” Steve says, squeezing softly, “You gonna fuck me or what?”

Billy swallows. Smiles. Scoops Steve up to the sound of an undignified YIP and holds him up by the ass, feeling those long legs wrap his waist, those arms drape loose around his neck. Steve chuckles in his ear.

Then he nips it. Breath blowing moist over it as he leans in close. Whispers.

“Let’s see if you can fuck an apology out of me.”

Billy shivers and grabs Steve’s ass tighter. Feels Steve’s body sliding up against his. The trip to the kitchen seems fucking miles long. Steve, warm and light and bloody and ready in his arms. Billy sits him on the island counter while he searches the bare cupboards for some fucking oil. Where the fuck is the oil?

“It’s there.” Steve says. “In that cupboard. No, there. Look where I’m pointing. Jesus.”

Billy knocks a few spice bottles to the counter below as he hauls out the bottle of olive oil. Extra virgin. Tch.

God, he’d wanted this moment since he’d first laid eyes on Steve. Since that first fucking look. Those big brown eyes scornful over those fucking sunglasses, but drifting down to Billy’s bare, beer-wet chest all the same. Up for it. Definitely. Somehow Billy fucking knew.

And he was too.

“Why the fuck aren’t you naked right now?” he says, eyes finding Steve as he turns. As he sets the bottle of oil down with a loud knock on the counter next to him. Waits, arms crossed.

And maybe it’s the way he says it, the way he’s watching, expectant, but Steve does what he’s told. Doesn’t say a word. Lets out a shaky breath. Nods and hauls his shirt up over his head. Hops down to skin off his tight fucking jeans. Stands there naked, dick hard as a rock, just breathing, existing as Billy takes him in.

Fucking perfect.

Billy moves in when he’s good and ready. Turns Steve around and leans him down real slow over the counter. Perfect height. Steps up close and toes Steve’s legs wider. Wider. There.

As the oil drizzles down over Steve’s bared, open ass, it’s all Billy can do not to rush. No fucking rushing a first time. No matter how much he wants that tight fucking heat around him already.

When he slips his slicked up finger past the pucker, he raises an eyebrow. Slips deeper and—

“Stevie?”

After two or three seconds of panting, Steve’s able to raise his head.

“Yeah?” it comes out half blissed and quiet. Breathy. That fucking fuck me voice of his.

“What the fuck is this?”

Billy slips another finger in. Way too fucking easy.

“Mmmm, that’s—” Three sharp pants. “Been practicing. Been waiting for you.”

And a sudden wallop of _want_ fucking hits Billy. And his dick _hurts_ trapped inside his jeans. Has to brace himself on the counter. Has to push himself back off and step away when his dick brushes Steve’s spread thigh. Billy plants a possessive hand on Steve’s back. Waits till he’s pretty sure he’s not gonna cum in his fucking pants.

“Billy?” Steve’s looking back over his shoulder. Mussed and bloody and a little wrecked and he fucking needs to cut that shit out. Fuck. Billy slips in a third finger to distract Steve. Practicing. Fuck.

“You—” Billy needs to think a fucking sec to remember what he was saying. “In the shower just now? You—”

“We’re alone,” Steve says, breathy. “And I—ah—I fucking—miss—missed you. We’d been training and we hadn’t— I wanted to—make you want to stay. I—”

Billy pulls his fingers out of Steve. Pulls away for one bracing moment and then steps back in. Grabs Steve’s shoulder and stands him up, spins him around.

“I’m here.” Billy leans in. Pulls a long slow kiss from Steve’s lips. Coppery and sweet. “Why the fuck can’t you see that I’m here? Right fucking here.”

Steve leans in. Unbuttons one button on Billy’s shirt.

“So let me feel you.”

Looks at Billy with those big dark tar pit eyes and traps Billy in them. Doesn’t fucking let Billy free till Billy’s standing naked as he is. Puts his hands on Billy’s chest and takes a breath like he was doin it for the first fucking time that day.

“Right here,” Billy says, nipping a kiss. Picking Steve up again and turning slowly around. Sliding up to sit on the counter and feeling Steve’s knees bracket him on either side. Seeing all that skin right in front of him and kissing that too, guiding Steve down slow onto his waiting dick. Feeling him tight around him. Molding to him.

“Right—here, Stevie. For good. Fucking promise. Fucking promise.”

Steve sets the pace. Billy lifts him over and over. Doesn’t even get tired. Fucking lost in it. In him. Pulling him close. Kissing him again and again till he’s dizzy with lack of breath from it.

Here Stevie. Right here.

He wraps his still slick hand around Steve’s dick and just watches him buck above him. Just watches his jaw clench and his pulse jump in his neck and his eyebrows meet and his white teeth in that open mouth as those muscles moving under skin move him down onto Billy again and again and—

It’s a struggle to outlast Steve. He needs to fucking work for it. But it’s Steve’s first time. You can’t rush a first time. And you can’t fuck that shit up. You can’t.

He clings to Steve as he cums, finally. Keeps wrapped around him after. Mostly to keep upright. But also to stay connected. Stay with him. Keep touching him. And Steve buries his face in the top of Billy’s head as he waits for Billy to fall back to earth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into Billy’s scalp.

Billy snorts. Asshole.

Eventually they move. They clean up. Dress. They end up where they started. Sitting in front of the couch. Staring at an empty cage. At the drift forming inside the open door.

Except for the distance between them, nothing might have changed. Their touching shoulders are the only clue.

Steve bumps his shoulder into Billy’s.

“I’m all healed up again, aren’t I? No bruises or….” Steve doesn’t finish the thought.

Billy takes a moment to say fuck you to the universe. Turns to find Steve looking at him. Nods.

“I think—” Steve says. “Since you’re around or whatever, I think that might be okay.”

Billy puts an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulls him closer. Turns back to the empty cage.

“I’m around.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I—believe you.”

Billy smiles. 

“Bout fuckin time.”

Turns back to see Steve smiling too, eyes down. Is he embarrassed? Too fuckin cute.

“Yeah, bout fuckin time,” Steve repeats.

“But you’ll still rough me up a little when I’m feeling kinky, right?” Steve says, sitting straighter like he'd just been struck with the thought. “Cause that just now was.... I just wanna be clear here.”

Billy laughs. Jesus.

“I fucking love you.”

“Yeah, I love you too.” Steve says like, obviously. “Don’t change the subject.” 

Then he leans back into Billy’s arm and chuckles. Lets the chuckle die down and they both just sit there in the quiet for a bit. Comfortable. 

“You think Franklin’s found some other rats somewhere?” he says, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know, I— Holy fuck.”

“What?” Steve turns to Billy, knocking against him again, this time by accident.

“I’m fucking stupid is what. I can check. You know? Bet I can find him through this power shit if I try. Little man was flayed too, right?”

“Holy fuck!” Steve laughs. Waits. “So do it already!”

Billy closes his eyes. Taps into the web, ignoring the obvious strings. The connections to the flayed closest to them. To those Billy has guarding the group at the cabin. Looks for thinner threads. Sees those giant moth monsters lurking in the forest. A whole group of them assembled and weighty in a tree, wings fluttering fitfully. Sees rats scurry here and there. _Its_ rats. Feels for a particular thread. Finds it. Finds him.

“Hey, dude,” Billy says. Sees the little rat stand at his voice, ears perked and nose twitching, tiny paw prints all around him in the snow. “Come home.”

And he does. Billy feels him heading home. He pulls Steve in. Watches for Franklin out the door.

At least he gets this. This moment. This connection. This fucking hard-won understanding. His whole life may be fucked but at least he gets this. He can make this enough.

Steve kisses him on the cheek and he smiles.

Yeah, it’s fuckin enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And So it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier  
> 24\. Kiss With a Fist – Florence + the Machine


	25. Okay to Throw Me Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter took entirely too long to come together. But come together it did. Finally. And I've kept you waiting quite long enough so, without further ado....
> 
> Oh, and let me know what you think with a comment, yeah? Really love hearing from you all.

Carol watches Billy.

Her unblinking eyes stare out from the dark of the open closet, ears covered as they always are by blaring headphones, the silver slash of duct tape creating an unnerving sense that her face is all eyes and flaring nostrils, her mouth missing.

Gone off without the rest of her to report to Tommy, maybe.

He’s sick of looking at her. Would close the closet door, but someone would just open it again and give him a lecture on inhumane treatment or some shit.

The last three days had been a fucking joke; a jumbled mess of sleeping bags and lines outside the one tiny bathroom in the cabin. A collage of Hop’s dour grumbling at being faced with the prospect of boys sleeping over every night for the foreseeable future, of kids just constantly talking and stomping around, of commiserating with Robin and venting to Jonathan and messing with Nancy and constant planning and Joyce stealing Billy’s cigarettes when she wasn’t fussing over them all and of Dustin’s mom claiming the TV for her own, cuddled up with this damn kitten that they’d insisted on bringing that wouldn’t stop fucking with Franklin. The little monster’s about to get a boot to the ass, too. Better fucking believe it.

Oh, and then there's Max, ignoring him. That’s another constant he's had to get used to.

Not that he blames her. Not that he doesn’t deserve it.

Theoretically, he can leave anytime. Escape the loony bin. He’s safe enough out there. But since the moment they’d closed all but the last of the gates and Tommy had made his first move, no one else has had that luxury. And Billy hasn’t used it himself because they haven’t run out of food yet. Because he feels better knowing they’re safe. Knowing he’s here if shit goes down.

Fully here. Body and all.

“They’re moving again out there.” A whisper. Nights are fucking nothing but whispers and watching. Such a constant that the cocoon nests of sleeping people scattered across the living room floor remain silent at this new communication; still. He looks away from Carol. Looks to Nancy.

She turns her big worried eyes on him, a skinny silhouette at the window. Up keeping watch with him, pacing while Billy sits on the fucking couch, bleary-eyed, because it’s not like he needs the goddamn windows to see anymore. Not like he needs her help at all, really.

“I’ve got it covered,” He whispers back. Whispering makes it easier to keep the tired annoyance out of his voice.

“You’ve got them fighting each other, you mean.” Said so quietly he’s not sure if she meant him to hear or not. Not that he needs to hear to know what she’s thinking. It’s all she’s been talking about. After all, it’s her family out there.

But it’s not exactly like he wants to fucking do it. Does she get that? Not like he has any choice in the matter. So unless she feels like being murdered or turned or who the fuck knows what by the monsters outside, he wishes she’d shut the fuck up about it.

“What was that?” he says anyway. Can’t quite hear you from all the way up there on your high horse.

“Nothing,” she replies.

Sure. Fine. Whatever.

“You know what?” Billy gets up off the couch. Clomps on into the kitchen and who fucking cares who he wakes up. “I’ve got this watch covered too.” Goes to pour himself another cup of coffee and finds the pot drained. Fuck. Rubs his eyes and tries to find the will to make more. “Go sleep or somethin.”

Nancy leans back against the fridge, arms crossed and eyes still worried.

“How long has it been since _you_ slept?”

Outside, about a half-mile away, a middle-aged man named Pete hits the ground; reaches out for his knocked-loose golf club and finds a downed branch instead. Swings out with it and sweeps the legs out from under a 10 year old boy that had lived down the street from him and had played outside in his sprinkler with his son last summer. As a dozen other fights rage around the guy, Pete crawls toward the prone boy, grunting, only to be tackled into a tumbling roll by a man that used to pick up his garbage. 

He sees that fight. Sees all the fights. Billy’s head is so fucking full of them. Full. And it’s becoming harder and harder to find his way back into himself. Every day he gets a little more lost, tossed on the fucking ocean of minds out there, wandering out among the (army) flayed that he’d been able to hold control of. That he tried to hold on to. Protect. Waiting for the next attack. Waiting to feel the next mind blink out. Killed. Lost like some fucking pawn in a stupid fucking game he didn’t ask to play. Some sacrifice in some fucked up strategy, some mad dash for checkmate.

He’s lost too many. And she judges him for it. And she depends on it. All of their lives depend on it. And she’s talking to him about sleep?

Sleep. When the fuck is he supposed to sleep?

When he can’t keep himself conscious anymore, he sometimes shifts his mind into the body of one or another of the flayed outside and lets this body doze off. Naps standing or slouched in a chair. For a minute or two. Till he gets shaken awake to chime in on some proposed piece of the plan. Weigh in on some decision. Hear out some desperate gamble that will allow them to get the fuck out of here. Get out of this fucking trap of a cabin and _do_ something. Beat the thing. End this.

Nancy’s still watching him when he focuses in on her again. She shoves herself off the fridge, propels herself up next to him with the momentum she’d gained and opens the cupboard above the coffee pot, pulling out a clean filter.

“Okay.... Sooo, I take it it’s been a while.” She scoops out enough grounds for a pot and then some. Takes the pot to the sink for filling.

“Doesn’t matter.” He leans back into the counter and rubs his eyes. Sees Susan’s terrified face. Stops fucking rubbing and opens them, dreading the next time he’ll have to close them. Not like he could fucking sleep if he tried. Pass out, maybe. But sleep? No fucking way.

She slides the emptied pot back under the machine. Flicks it on and turns her eyes on him again. They’ve gone cold. The coffee maker bubbles quietly behind her.

“If you’re all there is between us and _it_ , it matters.”

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Billy’s voice almost gets too loud. Almost breaks from whisper to angry life and he has to shut that shit down. Has to wait, listening, to make sure he hadn’t woken anyone up. He’s suddenly twice as fucking tired. Wishes he could drink the coffee hot and not feel like his insides were being boiled. “I’m handling it. I’m doing my fucking best here, alright? Lay off.”

“I didn’t mean—” And Billy opens his eyes at the tone. Doesn’t remember closing them. “Look. I know you hate me. Because of Steve. Because he used to—” 

She sighs.

“Billy, can we—just call a truce or something? I mean—I know that—” Her eyes find his and they’re still too fucking wide. Still too big in her face. Dominating her tiny frame like some nocturnal animal’s eyes. “I know,” she says. “That he loves you.” 

And he must make some reaction. Show some involuntary expression. Because she smiles at him. Like she’s trying to reassure him or some shit. Like he needs her reassurance.

“Because he used to look at me just like that when he—” The coffee stops sputtering behind her and she turns to reach for a mug. Pulls down two. “Like—all he needed was me. Like I was supposed to be his everything.” She fills the cups carefully, hand shaking a little. 

“But I couldn’t. Love him like that. I couldn’t be _that_.” 

She looks up to the low ceiling, purses her lips, keeps herself from crying like she so obviously wants to. Her voice is only a little shaky when she speaks again.

“And there wasn’t any way to let him know. To explain it and keep from hurting him, so—” She shrugs a little, like no big deal. Her face tells a different story as she slides a steaming mug toward him and gives up on talking, turning to spoon some sugar for herself, leaving him with nothing but her tiny back, her silence and the occasional soft clink of the teaspoon on her mug.

He studies her, her frail body, her will like a fucking bulldozer, and he realizes he’s just been hating her on principal all this time. On autopilot. Bitch who broke Steve’s heart. Bitch who got there first. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

“Where, _exactly_ , have you been all day that _this_ was the best you could come up with for dinner, you lazy bitch?” Echo of Neil’s voice in his head, faded down the years. “You answer me, Bitch!” Mom’s face so fucking blank, dead, so used to it.

Shit.

“I haven’t slept. Not in fucking days,” he says, fist pressed into the countertop. Mind half out in the woods. And then he says, “Fine.” Says, “you win.” He watches the steam rise from his blistering coffee. “We’re friends. And since we’re friends, I’ve got a favor to ask.” 

The teaspoon stops clinking. Her head turns, eyes on him. 

Curious.

He’s cuddled up behind Steve under the blanket they share mostly out of habit by the time the first of the sunlight beams golden through the window. Watches the light crawl down the wall. Waits for Steve to wake up.

Steve should at least be awake for it.

Franklin’s familiar scurrying is soothing from the cage above Billy’s head. Someone is snoring across the room. Even Nancy has finally turned in, cuddled up with Jonathan in the corner. No one to see the sunrise but Franklin and Billy and Fucking Carol and the hundreds of flayed in Billy’s head, still out there in the woods. Standing silent guard and not a fucking thought in their heads. Done fighting for the moment. He counts the casualties. Three tonight. Watches the cold sunlight touch their drained and slowly stiffening faces; illuminating these failures for his inspection in the after-battle quiet. All of Tommy's dead have oozed off to feed that _thing_ in the warehouse, waiting to spring out like some fucking jack in the box.

Maybe Tommy’s sleeping, somewhere out there. Maybe he can sleep.

Hell, maybe he’d fucking died last night. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Billy can just see Max’s copper hair poking out of her sleeping bag. Misses her taunts, her jokes, just her fucking voice in general. He only gets it second hand now.

And the look in her eyes when he’d told her that—

“Why didn’t you stop it!”

Her voice. Her last words. Still rattling around in his head. Doing damage.

And he’s sorry. And that sorry counts for shit.

He hadn’t saved Susan. 

They’d been the last to be picked up, Neil and Susan. Because he’d put it off. And Max knew that. And Billy still hadn’t known how he was gonna handle sharing a house with the fucker when he came. Was contemplating moving into the woods so he wouldn’t have to fucking worry about it anymore. And, already thinking of them, when he’d felt the tug from inside their house, that pull on his web of a flayed in the area, he’d sent his mind rushing over instantly. On reflex. That old protective reflex. Only to end up inside a flayed Neil. _Inside the fucker’s head_. Trapped in a territory so familiar and foreign that he’d reacted as if he’d been burnt. Poisoned. Withdrawing. Finding somewhere else to be. Someone else. Fucking anyone else. 

By the time he made his way back with a new pair of hands, Tommy was there. Like he’d planned it all along. And he probably had. Him and his hoard there surrounding the house and Billy with no fucking chance of saving Susan. He’d tried. He’d seen her face as he beat his way through the attacking crowd. And that image was still rattling around in his head too. Painful as her daughter’s words. The way she’d been coming around, head bloody, eyes growing wider and wider. Mouth opening in a widening O that reminded him of Tommy’s face when he’d— That scream she’d let loose as half the town had gathered around her, gathered her up in their cold callous hands and swept her off to be made one of them. He’d stilled, listening to those fading screams.

And then, when the scene went suddenly black and he’d found himself standing disoriented in the cabin, he knew they’d killed him. Or rather, her. The body of the 26 year old vet tech he’d hijacked. Her name was— Her name— And she’d had freckles. Freckles and an engagement ring on her finger. And she was just one more casualty to add to the fucking list. And faced with Max and her fury, her lost faith, it was hard as fuck to dwell on her death. So he saved it up for later. For years fucking later.

He’d failed Max. Again. He’d fucked it all up.

And maybe his failures won’t have long to haunt him. Maybe he’ll be spared the bulk of the fucking guilt.

Maybe he’ll go to hell instead.

Steve’s breath begins to change pace. He can feel it under his palm, slightly faster, less rhythmic, and soon enough Steve’s stretching, turning, burrowing into Billy like he’d been waiting to do it all night. His big brown eyes lift from where his face had been buried in Billy’s shirt and his smile catches the sun.

“Still up, huh?” Worry carefully kept out of those eyes.

So Billy smiles back halfheartedly.

“Still up.” He swallows. “Hey.” He kisses Steve. Lingers a little too long. Breaks off much earlier than he’d like. “Take a walk with me?”

Steve’s smile falls as he studies Billy.

“Now?”

“Yeah,” Billy says. “Yeah, now.”

A frown begins on Steve’s face.

“Please,” Billy says before Steve can speak. “Just—take a walk with me, okay?” 

He can’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“What is this?” Steve asks outside, closing the cabin door as quietly as he can. The way the sunlight filters through the trees Billy can almost pretend it’s warm out. A stray beam catches dust motes in the still air, lights Steve’s face golden. One last beautiful sight.

“Fucking—” Billy says, squeezing his eyes shut and cupping Steve’s face between his hands. Leaning their foreheads together as he whispers— “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? Don’t scream.”

And he reaches out with his mind. Reaches into Steve with it. Clamps down the protest he can feel in Steve’s vocal cords at the intrusion.

_I’m sorry. Sorry. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. I love you._

He sends the thought out hoping Steve can fucking hear it. Hoping he can feel Billy’s fear, his desperation, feel how fucking necessary this is. How he wouldn’t be doing this if he had any other choice. If he thought Steve would give him permission, he would have asked. He would have warned him. He would have _asked_.

But Steve—

“You know,” Billy hears. That whisper from the past, from the night after Steve had been flayed. Feels Steve tucked into him the way he had been, the both of them curled up on the same living room floor that they’d just vacated. Feels the warmth of Steve all down his front the way it had been. 

“It’s better this way,” Steve said.

“How’s that?” Billy said, having an idea what Steve meant and not really wanting to fucking hear it.

“When we break the connection— They keep saying everyone might die. The whole town, right? Everyone who’s been flayed?”

Fuck. “Yeah,” Billy confirmed, quiet.

“Meaning you. Meaning you might die, too.” And Billy wished he could soothe the panic in that voice. Lie and make Steve believe him. “And I was thinking,” Steve went on. “At least now I won’t be left—”

“Stop it,” Billy said, not wanting to hear any more. Fired off a lie after all, more for self-defense than anything. “No one’s dying. You’re not dying. Just shut up about it.”

The pause after the lie was thoughtful. And Billy knew he hadn’t heard the end of it.

“Billy,” Steve said, whispered off into the dark so that Billy could barely catch it. “You don’t get it.” And he turned to face Billy. Those brown eyes inky in the dark. Ominous. Entrances to that black fucking cave and all those disorienting tunnels inside. “If you— After all this— If you—” And he took in a long breath, let it slip slowly back out. Billy could feel the expansion and contraction of Steve’s chest against his own. “Just, for me,” Steve managed, “dying would be better.”

And the remembered words bring the same sick revulsion now as they had the first time. The same panic as every time they’d cycled back through Billy’s head after. In all this time stuck in this tiny fucking cabin. Every single fucking time he’d met Steve’s eyes after a long bloody night. 

Fuck Steve for saying it. For even thinking it. Die together like some stupid fucking characters in some stupid fucking— No. Fuck that all to hell.

Steve isn’t gonna slump dead like some cut-string puppet when they close that last gate. He’s gonna live. He’s gonna hate Billy for it, but he’ll live. He’ll be fine. And if he’s fine then that’s enough. If Steve’s the only one that lives through this fucking nightmare, it’ll be enough.

Because Billy already has enough fucking blood on his hands.

He sifts through Steve’s mind. So different than Franklin’s had been when he’d tried this shit the first time, guilty as all hell for running one more experiment on the guy. So much more complicated inside; so much more beautiful, even in the darkest places. He searches and reaches and finally finds what he’d broken in to find. That place inside Steve’s brain like a chemical switch, like a shiny red button labeled purge. The fucking weakness he’d been looking for, searching for, since he’d taken control of this connection. Dangerous technology in enemy hands.

He pushes that button. Brushes against that part of Steve’s mind and then backs away. Retreats into himself again in time to catch Steve’s slumping body.

Come on, work. Work. It worked once. It has to again. Fucking has to.

Steve’s body tenses up. Reels into itself as Billy holds him. And now he screams and Billy doesn’t blame him. Now he shakes and twitches and curls in on himself and screams and screams and it’s enough to wake the others. Enough to get them stumbling out to see; to demand answers. But Billy can’t hear the questions. He doesn’t have room in his mind for anything but that scream. And when it’s broken by the black bile forcing its way up Steve’s throat, Billy keeps holding him. Begging whoever’s listening to make this fucking work. Just this once let this work and don’t fuck him over. Please. Fucking please.

Steve’s skin is tattooed with black veins that pop prominent then fade, leaving a spiderweb of red lines in their wake. The black fucking ooze keeps flowing out, chunky and writhing. Bubbling up from Steve’s stomach in great spurts. Bleeding from his eyes, his ears, his nose, in its rush to escape. And the black puddle on the ground coagulates as it sits. Comes together. Gains dimension. Ripples and squirms till it’s gathered itself fully out of Steve and then slithers slowly across the ground. Oozing away, blackening the snow.

Billy lets it go.

Holds Steve as the shuddering turns to shivering. As his body heats under Billy’s grasping hands. Burns. As he finally stills, breaths coming in steady long gasps, gathering himself enough to realize where he is, what’s happened. To break angrily from Billy’s arms. And Billy’s been waiting for it. But it’s worse than he’d prepared for. The reality of it is worse.

 _Steve_.

Steve gathers himself enough to stand, wobbling only once and shaking Billy from him again, more violently, when Billy’s hands reach out automatically to steady him. And Billy’s palms sting.

_Sorry. Sorry. So fucking sorry. I’m so—_

Steve steadies himself enough to walk back to the cabin. And though Billy feels hands on him, shaking him; though he knows Hop is demanding his attention, he doesn’t hear a fucking word till that cabin door shuts with a finality that fucking hurts. Doesn’t slam. Just shuts, quietly. And that small click as it closes physically fucking hurts him.

_Had to save you. Of course I fucking had to. Steve, goddammit—_

“Billy? Sweetie?” Joyce is running a hand over his back. Things resolve enough in his mind that he can feel that. It doesn’t bring any comfort. He can move enough to reach up at a tickling sensation and feel wetness on his cheek. But crying won’t fucking help.

“What just happened, Kid?” Hop, hands on Billy’s shoulders and face soft and hard at once. “Hey.” He shakes Billy once more, gently. “I need you to tell me what that was.”

Billy sees all of them, sleep-mussed and tired and scared, barefoot in the snow. Shocked and staring at him.

Billy swallows. Looks for his voice and finally finds it.

“I’m gonna save them.” He comes steadier into himself. Looks Hop in the eye. Finds Max and swears to her— “I’m gonna save them all.”

And when she sees the look in his eye, she nods.

She nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And So it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier  
> 24\. Kiss With a Fist – Florence + the Machine  
> 25\. Colorblind - Counting Crows


	26. Could be Worse; Could be Raining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Things are really snowballing now and oh my god what have I gotten myself into with this goddamn battle of the bastards/Lord of the Rings style ending. Do I hate myself? SMH
> 
> Anyway, might not be able to update next week due to my tragic need to do real-world things or suffer the consequences, but if I can, I will. Real excited about seeing whether I pull this off or fall on my face spectacularly. Either way, I’ll be entertained.
> 
> And throw me a comment! Don’t be shy. I don’t ever bite unless I’m sweet-talked into it.

Billy needs a smoke.

Hop takes one last drag off his cigarette and Billy watches him grind it out on the bottom of his boot before crouching down and burying the soggy remains in a shallow grave. Idly wonders where the guy picked up the habit. Mostly just wishes Hop would’ve fucking offered him one. Inconsiderate prick.

“They need to be off the thing’s frequency first? What does that mean exactly?”

Hop leans back against the porch rail alongside Billy. Crosses his arms. It’s bright and sunny and so it should be warm, except Billy’s comfortable which means that the glare of the sun sparkling up off the snow is just this—lie. This bright lie. And he’s jealous of the way Hop blows into his hands for warmth.

Never felt less fucking human.

“I dunno,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets because it might make him feel better to pretend. “They zapped me is all I know. Something about electricity or magnets or some shit.” Billy’s apparently so used to being showed up by the pack of brats that he doesn’t even feel stupid admitting how stupid he is about it all. “Ask the kids,” He says, easy. “That’s all them.”

Hop snorts. Maybe feels the same about it. Maybe it’s some rite of adulthood, getting used to kids making you feel like an idiot. Accepting it as inevitable.

Well shit, in that case Mazel Tov. Billy’s a fuckin man.

“Suppose it figures.” The big guy wipes a hand down his mouth and just stands there, staring off into the woods. And for the first time in a while, the silence gets to Billy. 

But fucking everything today is gonna get to Billy. He’d planned on it. He’d—

Christ, he just needs a smoke.

Which is fine. Except his last cigarette is inside, with Steve. At least Nancy better have given it to him by now. And maybe Steve’s still hanging onto it. That and the shaky handwritten letter Billy’d passed along with it. Just keeping it around unread, unsmoked, pissed and glaring about the fact that it’s weighing down some pocket of his. Or maybe he’s smoking it this fucking second. Out of spite, probably. Or maybe thankful for it. That’s possible. In some way—any way—thinking of Billy. Billy licks his lips. Yeah. Sure. Right. More likely Steve threw it the fuck away soon as he got it.

_Stevie,_

_I’m prepared for you to hate me for taking away your choice in this._

If Billy’s real lucky maybe Steve’ll feel guilty later and fish it outta the trash. Think of the fucking sacrifice Billy’s making in giving him his _last goddamn cigarette_ today of all days and feel like a real asshole.

Because, come on. Just because Billy’d foreseen Steve dropping him like a bad habit once he’d saved the guy didn’t mean it wasn’t a shitty thing to do.

The guy had wanted to die for chrissakes.

_What I’m not prepared for is for you to die. I’m not prepared to take you down with me here._

Billy isn’t the asshole here.

_I promise to live if I can. To try and stick around for you. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d stick around as long as you wanted me. I’ve only ever lied to you once. I mean a real, no bullshit lie._

He needs to stop thinking about the fate of that goddamn cigarette. Tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter what Steve’s up to. But of course, it fucking _does_. Tries to remind himself that he’s fine with Steve hating him. All part of the plan. That just last night he’d made peace with it. That he’s completely fucking Zen about it if it means Steve’s safe and alive at the end of all this. Remind himself that he’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s just peachy.

God, he’s a shitty liar.

_Come ask me about it if you want to know. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But you have to make me a promise too. The same one I’m making. You have to live. To try. You have to do that much for me. Shit, that is if you still love me after this. If you ever even talk to me again. Please talk to me again._

_Love you,  
Billy_

“I need to make a few calls.” Hop says, startling Billy; making him jump a little in the new-broken silence. “Electricity and magnets, huh? No promises, but I may have just what we’re looking for.”

“Well,” Billy says, “if you know what we’re looking for you’re way ahead of me.”

Hop laughs once. Stands straight, stretching unobtrusively. “Yeah, well, color me unsurprised there, Kid.”

“We have another problem.” Jonathan’s voice drifts quietly over the still air as he walks toward them.

“Make that two,” Nancy says, causing Jonathan to turn as she catches up and passes him, walking right up to Billy and taking him by the arm. “I’m borrowing him for a sec.”

“What’s is it?” Billy follows her a good distance away. Shakes off her pinching grip when the small sharp points of her fingertips get to him. Sharpen his worry.

Steve. It’s something up with Steve. Why the fuck else would she be willingly talking to him right now? Their status as friends is still strictly an only-on-paper thing.

Motherfucker better be okay. If he isn’t, Billy’s gonna kill him.

“He’s reading the letter.”

Billy looks over to where Hop’s waiting, where Jonathan is eyeing him. Scans the forest surrounding. The town at large. Feels that utter fucking inhumanity creep up on him again.

“And?”

Jesus, with the suspense over here.

“And he says don’t leave.”

Billy lets his frustrated breath out slowly. Is this better than what he’d planned for? Is it good because it’s better? Still seems pretty shitty from where he stands. But even as he stands here, knowing he has to leave to keep them safe, wondering how in the shit he’s supposed to do everything he apparently has to, he knows he’s going to find a way. Because it’s Steve asking.

Knows it’s what the hollow fucking ache in him where Steve belongs demands.

“Great. I’m sure that’ll be easy with these two over here.“ Hop and Jonathan are both casting on-the-sly glances Billy’s way as if their impatience isn’t obvious or something.

Light at the end of the tunnel. A way out. Finally. And Steve says wait.

“Make it work.” Nancy shrugs. “I’m just the messenger. He says don’t leave. Actually, his exact words were ‘If he gives a shit about what I want at all, the motherfucker—‘"

Billy lets out one bark of laughter and waves the rest of the sentence off. Yeah, that sounds about right. Fuck. 

Fuck. The overlay of Steve’s voice in his mind when she’d said the words is just—

Feels like there’s a goddamn nettle patch growing under his skin.

“Fine,” he says. Turns back to his problems. Watches Hop and Jonathan continue to talk amongst themselves. Waiting. “I’ll improvise.”

And by the time he makes it back to hear what the fuck Jonathan needs, two of the nearby flayed are making their way through the woods to join him. He’ll be here, alright. Fine. He’ll still technically be here.

Fucking Steve and his demands, anyway.

“Hop filled me in,” Jonathan says. “And if we do take all of the flayed out of the picture, you know what that leaves us with.”

“That’s the problem you were talking about?” Billy asks. Trust Jonathan to be a few steps ahead of the pack. Billy hadn’t thought it all through like that. But of _course_ Billy knows what that leaves them with. A big fuckin monster is what it leaves them with. Just looming on their horizon. Inevitable.

Jonathan nods. “That’s the problem. And there’s a solution. It’s just—I can’t do anything about it here.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, feeling almost clairvoyant. “Figured as much.”

Jonathan throws Billy something like a smile. Small and slow on his hard face.

“Me and Dustin need to do some shopping.”

“Beautiful.” Billy crosses his arms and looks heavenward, waiting for it to fuckin rain or something, why not, winter be damned. That’s the next step on the shit slide, right? Sudden, inexplicable rain?

The two flayed emerge from the trees and move toward them. Yup. Fuck today. Billy can feel a headache coming on already.

He’ll just be here, waiting, on the bench. And while he’s waiting, he’ll let his mind wander.

If these goddamn kids'll only let up a second.

The third time Billy’s interrupted outta the head of one of the two escort flayed, he has to physically stop himself from cold-cocking whoever’s touching him. The tap on his shoulder is hesitant, almost fearful. And really, Steve should know better, should’ve sent Max out. She wouldn’t’ve worried about pissing him off. Would probably try for it just to liven up the day.

“Jesus. I’ll be back.”

Jonathan nods awkwardly up at Billy, who’s sitting fitfully behind the eyes of some massive kid from school, probably from their grade, some jock or other, like Billy fucking bothered paying attention. Then Billy’s back in his own body. Disoriented behind his own eyes.

“What?” Billy says. Lucas jumps, drawing his hand back like he thinks Billy’s maybe gonna bite off a finger or somethin.

In the back of his mind, Billy can feel Tommy and nearly all of his flayed squaring up on the distraction Billy’d so thoughtfully arranged as cover for their little missions. Shit’s about to get real fun. His head throbs.

“Make it snappy, I’m on the clock.”

Lucas blinks. “Steve says—”

“Two seconds,” Billy says, sensing something important and holding up a palm to stop the kid talking so he can spy.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Hop says into the phone’s mouthpiece. “I need to know if it’s still operational.” The guy’s smoking another cigarette and the sweet stench of it fills Billy’s borrowed nostrils. The burly firefighter Billy’s inhabiting isn’t struck with a craving at the scent but even over the miles that separate them, Billy’s own mouth waters. He bails.

“Alright,” Billy tells Lucas, back in his head and motioning for the kid to bring it. “Spit it out.”

“Steve says that thirdly, using some lie you told him as bait to get him to talk to you is bullshit. He told me to say he just wanted you to know that. And that you’re an asshole. His words.”

Lucas waits. Maybe for a response.

“Can I go then?” he finally asks. “This is so stupid.”

Billy pulls back from where he’d been distracted by the beginning of the brawling fight with Tommy, from the poor bastards Billy’d used to lead the guy into an ambush, a diversion. He comes back into himself, runs what the kid had just said through his head again, looking for a response. Putting too much effort into being present. Losing his grip on the fight. His control.

“Just tell him I know it’s bullshit. Tell him terms stand. Tough shit,” Billy says. “And yeah, get outta here.” Lucas turns to leave, looking relieved. Pauses at Billy’s next words. “Also, tell him to stop sending kids to do his dirty work.”

Lucas groans, stomping away.

“Hey, Barry!” Billy hears Hop’s hearty voice coming in loud and bright when he moves back into the firefighter’s body. “Yeah, it’s Hop. Listen, remember that favor I’ve got kicking around? Uhuh, from that trouble a few years back. With the— Exactly. Well, I’m hoping we can square it.”

And there are better places to be. Billy looks in on the battle in time to watch Tommy’s group being sprung upon by his. Gotcha motherfucker. Caught up in makeshift nets and trapped on all sides. Surrounded. Perfect. He slips off to check on Jonathan.

“Billy. Billy!”

“Yeah, what?” Billy takes a second to focus. This jock’s eyesight is shit. Doesn’t have any glasses anywhere on him to make it any better, either. He squints to make out Jonathan’s face.

“We’re done here. Time to go to the mall.”

“I saw the setup for that concert,” Dustin enthuses. “This is gonna be huge!”

“Jesus you kids are warped,” Billy complains. “It’s a giant monster made of people, not some science fair project. Try a little perspective on for size.”

“You sound so weird coming out of someone else’s mouth,” Dustin replies.

And it’s not like the kid’s wrong.

He climbs the borrowed body into the back of Jonathan’s car and leaves the meathead to ride without him. Gets back to commanding his fucking troops on the battlefield. Zeroes in on a group of his flayed that have Tommy on the run. He pushes them a little harder. Just a bit faster. Follows the chase and abandons all but a cursory trace of the other locations. Faster. Go faster.

“Billy?”

“Shit!” Climbs back into his own head and sees who’s calling him. It’s Joyce. “Oh, Christ, sorry Mrs—” She says call her Joyce but it feels fucking weird even thinking of her as Joyce when the only time Billy'd ever taken an older women up on their insistence on a first-name basis in the past was if he was hitting on them. Playing with them. And the thought of doing that shit to Mrs. Byers, who he can only think of as this fierce, protective mom, who he's so fucking jealous of Jonathan for having, is just—no.

“Kinda caught me juggling here,” he says too heartily. Like it even makes any sense. And he gives her this grin that probably looks all wrong. And he always gets so fuckin shy talking to her. Like he’s some cuckoo in her nest, and once she realizes what he is she’ll be disgusted with him for even thinking— “Anyway, you need help with something?”

Joyce smiles. “No, nothing like that. Lunch is ready when you want it. I was going to offer to bring you some, but—” She shrugs.

“Thanks,” Billy tells her, distracted. “Really. I’ve just— I’ve gotta—”

“Got to go,” she says. “I can see that. It’s fine.”

Billy gapes at her for a moment, feeling his pack of flayed lagging in the distraction. Not knowing what to say to her. Like fucking always.

“Shit!” He yells once he realizes he’s losing Tommy, zeroing in quick on the flayed again and getting them running. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” Abandons his body entirely. Eagerly. Fucking mortified.

And he’s dizzy. Stretched too thin. He wills the pack to pick up the pace, dodging trees and underbrush while keeping an eye out for Tommy’s flayed that he can sense closing in on either side. Just a bit closer. Just a little bit—

“We’re here! Billy, hey! Get the hell out of the car!”

“You have the goddamn worst timing, you know that!” He glares at Dustin. Climbs jock-boy out of the car and sets the hulking flayed following them on autopilot. Barely acknowledging the massive, newly built mall looming before him.

Catches a glimpse of a smile on Hop’s face as he slides through just to check up, sees the man wrapping up the conversation and listens in for a sec. “Right now? That’d be perfect. I’ll meet you.”

Billy groans. Gives the order for this body to follow along when the time comes, sick of the fucking interruptions.

He finds Tommy again. And the distraction had only bought the guy a bit of lead.

Billy can make it up. He drives the pack forward. Faster. Closer. Breaks a few off to take care of the enemy flayed following and drives the core group even harder after Tommy. Come on. Come on.

One of them draws close enough for a tackle and Billy launches her forward. Has the other two piling on top of Tommy once he’s down. Holding him down with borrowed strength to match his own and then some. Making sure he stays fucking put.

Got you.

“Hey,”

His eyes snap open on the woods outside the cabin. All attention is pulled toward the sound of that voice. That hey. He has to fight to keep the two escorting flayed moving with their groups. Basic direction. Feels Tommy slip the grasp of the flayed in the woods. Watches him disappear and suddenly can’t make himself care. Stops looking.

Saves that for Steve. And he can’t find any words. Not even a fucking “hey yourself.” Anything he might say seems suddenly stupid. Useless. So he stops fucking thinking about it and just opens his mouth; says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m not sorry.”

Nice fuckin plan trusting his mouth. 

Steve smiles, though. And that smile makes it alright.

“That so. Well I, for one, am astonished.” Steve scoffs. Pulls out the cigarette Billy had left him. “Got a light, Asshole?”

And sue Billy for gettin a little emotional over it. Over the casual fucking way Steve just patches that hollow place he'd left in Billy. Over the terrifying fucking power that implies. Billy doesn’t speak. Pulls out Steve’s zippo. Flicks it till it catches and waits for the flame to draw Steve in.

Soon enough the guy is sitting snug up next to him. Not touching, but only by a technicality. Steve catches the cigarette alight and draws on it, the smoke curling off with his steaming breath through the still, frozen air of the deceptive, bright day. Then he waits a bit, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. Finally offers it to Billy.

And Billy’s breath comes a little too rough, his chest tight. But he takes the fucking smoke and a blessed drag from it. And that ubiquitous fuckin wet spot imprints itself on Billy’s lip and has him shivering. God. Steve. God.

“So this lie…” Steve begins, not needing to actually ask. He’s already earned the answer, bought with his presence, his acknowledgement.

Billy passes the cigarette back over and closes his eyes when Steve’s fingers brush across his for a moment during the exchange. God.

“This lie,” he says. “Has to do with my mom. And how dead she is.”

Steve takes a drag. Nods.

“So, not dead, I take it.”

“Probably not,” Billy says. Can’t believe he’s talking about it so fucking freely. Can’t believe the words aren’t burning out his throat, destroying him as they exit. The thought of her has cooled. The love of her usurped. “Wouldn’t know,” he goes on. “She took off. Haven’t talked to her in years.”

Says it like he’s over her. But come on. He’ll never be over her. He’s just—

Steve nods again. Keeps nodding as he offers up the cigarette to Billy, who maybe extends the contact between them as he takes it. Frowns when he has to pull away to take a hit. Forgets he’s still holding it after, caught up in memories of his mom’s glaring absence. Comparisons to Steve’s. After a while, Steve elbows him.

“Share.”

Billy holds the cigarette up at face-level and Steve takes the filter between his teeth. Takes another drag before speaking again.

“So I get it. The saving me thing. Why you did it because I’d— If it was you, I wouldn’t even hesitate. And I do promise. I can do that for you. Try to live. It’s just—” And Steve shifts the cigarette over to his left. Puts his right hand over the hand that Billy had left there in the snowy no-man’s-land between them, hopeful. “You’re not gonna die, right? You better not fucking die,” Steve says. “That’s all I’m saying. You better not fucking die. Or—”

And Billy finally turns to Steve and looks. Takes in that face. The tears that hadn’t made their presence known in Steve’s voice, shining wet on those cheeks. The trembling hand holding the cigarette safe from the moisture that threatens it. Billy takes the mostly-gone cigarette from that hand. Takes one last drag and puts it absently out. Last cigarette. Who fuckin cares. Reaches up to clear the tears from Steve’s cheeks.

“You should know,” Billy tells him. Kisses him. Pulls back to look him in the eye. “If I can stay with you, I’m gonna fuckin take that option. Every time." And then he grins, cocking an eyebrow. "Especially if the alternative is dying.”

“Good answer,” Steve whispers. And his whole side is suddenly leaned on up into Billy. And Billy wraps him tight. Kisses his hair.

“You cold?” Billy asks.

And Billy feels Steve nod into his chest. Feels him reposition, gettin nice and fucking comfy.

“It’s nice.”

They wait. And the silence is fine again. Is nice. They enjoy it while it lasts.

They just exist together. For a while. While they can.

And Billy watches the traps being laid by the others, Hop and Jonathan, out there in the world. And it seems far away. Unreal. Keeps tabs on Tommy and his flayed. In time, brings the stray sheep safe back home, job well done. Protects them as they return. And it’s easy. It all goes so smoothly he has to stop himself growing suspicious.

Waits for the rain. Sudden and inexplicable.

Next stop on the shit slide.

And later, he searches for Tommy again over the sandwich he’d caved and headed inside to eat. His stomach had been getting loud enough to ruin the moment with Steve completely. Or make it fucking perfect. Almost human. The laughter that followed feeling something like warmth used to.

He finds Tommy. Finds Jonathan’s eyes in the milling group, all of them feeling the static in the air. The change. Find’s Hop’s steady gaze. And at their nods he lays the bait. Like they’d planned. He throws up a nice crisp image of Carol.

 _Tommy. Oh, Tooommmy._

The taunt echoes in a mocking singsong.

_You out there, Amigo?”_

Billy pokes at the angry snarl that is Tommy in the web. Pokes him with the image of Carol.

_You want her?_

And he snatches the image away quick as he gave it.

_Come and get her._

Throws Tommy a mental smirk.

_Let’s say midnight, huh? Sure. Old west style. Showdown at the OK corral type deal. I’ll send you the location an hour ahead. How bout it? I’m bored, Tommy. Aren’t you bored?_

Sends an image of Carol again, taped up and tied and dirty and staring out of the dark closet she’s trapped in.

_Don’t you miss her?_

Can feel that Tommy does. That whatever’s left of him still can miss her through all the monster.

 _Don’t you want her, Tommy?_

And he yanks the image away once more.

_Doesn’t seem like it. We’ll see. Midnight._

Billy lets the connection fade. Knows he has Tommy snagged good, the whole worm swallowed down and him gut-hooked on the hidden barbs. Clueless.

Till he tries to fight.

It’s done. Set in stone. It ends tonight. One way or another, it—

He hears the familiar engine pull up through the ears of the flayed out in the woods and smiles. Had been listening for it. Would recognize that sound anywhere. Jumps on into the flayed driver’s mind as he exits so Billy can catch a good glimpse of her again.

His Camaro. Rightfully stolen.

Because if tonight is his last fight, he might as well show up in style, right?

Fuck it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And so it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s Over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier  
> 24\. Kiss with a Fist – Florence + the Machine  
> 25\. Colorblind - Counting Crows  
> 26\. Prove My Love – Violent Femmes


	27. Space Between If and When

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, so if you’re gonna listen to one song in this playlist of mine, let it be this one. Seriously. It’s so fucking amazing. 
> 
> I’ve had this goddamn scene in my head for so long at this point that it’s almost surreal to see it on the page. Love how it came out, though. Hope you love it too.
> 
> Love hearing from all of you in the comments as well. Cherish the feedback. Seriously. So feel free to let me know what you think.

Wind’s picking up.

At least Franklin’s safe at back at hom—at Hop’s cabin. Billy lifts his boot and looks at the print it leaves behind in the snow. Smaller than it should be, isn’t it? Home. Sure. Close e-fuckin-nough. He thinks of home. Of what home even looks like for him now.

Looks up to find Steve, haloed every few seconds by red light glowing up like the cherry of the world’s largest cigarette, flaring at a giant’s drag. Red two three four red two three—the cherry red beacon stuck up on the old rusted TV tower they’d come here for—red two three four— And Steve looks like some bloodied fuckin fallen angel with his spiked bat slung all don’t-give-a-shit over his shoulder like that and his hair aflame in that red light. The tower itself looms black, skeletal and ominous behind him, its spindly heights visible in every burst of light. Red two thee four red two—

Yeah, Billy thinks of Franklin, who’s safe at home and warm and every time Billy thinks about it the thought drives off a little bit of the fear that’s free-floating around in his gut. Every time he pictures the little dude in his nice cozy cage, maybe running his still-squeaky wheel—never got around to fixing that did he?—maybe chewing a pellet of food, maybe asleep, he can feel his pulled-taught muscles slip a few notches. The knowledge that the little guy is safe does him good somehow. The knowledge that he’s warm. Billy imagines him warm.

Tries to remember what it had felt like, exactly. Warm. Already, he’s starting to lose the memory, the feeling fading in bits and blurry pieces like a dead friend’s face or their smell or laugh.

Warm. He tries to remember. He tries and he fails.

He kicks a bit of snow off the raised lip of the flat roof. Watches it fall to the peach-bright ground below. That peachy city glow pushing away the night in the surrounding field and bouncing up off the snow, lighting the night for them. Watches the warm-lit clouds on the horizon roll their way toward the TV station, swirl of them gunmetal grey and angry; fucking perfect for what’s to come.

One snowflake twirls, dances, past his line of sight. He reaches out and catches it, looks at it sitting on his palm, crystalline; unmelted. Beautiful.

He blows the single snowflake away.

Almost time.

“Billy… What’s gonna happen to _you_ when those things get zapped?” Steve had asked him the question in the nostalgic fucking wonderland of his car’s interior. Just dropped it on him during the ride over, like Billy knew or something. Like Billy could know.

“Nothin,” he’d said. Lied. Because wasn’t that what Steve really wanted?

Steve’s eyes when he’d glanced over told him that maybe it wasn’t. That maybe Billy didn’t know what Steve wanted any more than he knew what was goin on inside that fucking head of his. Billy ignored the look, ignored the ache in the back of his eyeballs from the constant glancing at the clock. An hour till he maybe died. Now fifty-six minutes. Now— He revved the engine and fixed his eyes on the road, gripping the wheel tighter.

Goddammit.

Nothing _was_ gonna happen to him. Nothing they could fucking change. Nothing fucking worrying could fix. Nothing.

“It’s time,” he says into the wind picking up on the roof as he backs away from the edge. And Steve nods in the red blaze of the tower light. Nods to him and doesn’t say a word.

They head down into the eerie hush below.

“You’re an asshole,” Max says, eyes red-rimmed and fierce, blocking him off at the bottom of the stairs. Her little buddies, scared and silent, stand grouped up close behind her. “I can help out there.”

“Max—” He stops. Lowers his voice. Meets her juggernaut fucking gaze full-on and sees it soften a little. “If this shit goes south you might just get your chance for a fight,” he says. “If it does, there’s no way this is ending clean.” He holds her eyes. “So when they come, you’ve gotta be ready. Okay?”

He looks for any sign of defiance. But it’s hard to tell with her. It always has been.

“Look, I don’t give a shit if it’s a friend from school.” He goes on. “I don’t give a shit if it’s Susan, alright?” And at this she flinches a bit. “Cause she’ll kill you. You get me? So you fight. You get out and you don’t—” 

He gets a sudden flash of her life, the hopelessness of it if he fucks this up and it catches up his breath in his throat. Figures he’s said enough. Goes to walk past her but pauses by her side when he reaches her. 

“Just don’t stop running till you’re safe, okay?” he says, like anywhere will be safe if he fails here. He looks down at her looking up at him. “Watch your six, Mad Max,” he tells her, and flicks her upper arm to lighten the sting of his words; smiles when she hisses in and glares at him.

“Asshole,” she says again, rubbing her arm. But this time the word lacks its usual bite.

Mad Max. Shit, he hasn’t called her that to her face in years. Look at him gettin all nostalgic over here.

Before he can start walking again, she hauls off and hugs him, squeezing off the rest of his air with her death-grip. And he can tell she’s crying into his shirt. But no one else can. So he doesn’t say a fucking word. And by the time she pulls away, she’s got it back under control. Back in the bottle with her fear and her worry, stoppered up behind hard eyes that may or may not be a little bit redder around the edges.

Like any of these chumps would call her out on it.

“Don’t die or I’ll be pissed,” she says.

“The fuck you think you’re talking to?” he replies, walking off like it’s nothing. Like he isn’t scared shitless. Like she can’t see right through his bullshit. 

God, he loves her. Mad Max. His little goddamn sister.

Wishes he’d realized it a little bit fucking sooner.

Putting that depressing-ass thought aside to maybe torture himself with later if he’s lucky, he glances unconsciously down at his watch. Fourteen minutes left till he maybe dies. He buries the thing under his jacket sleeve, annoyed that he can’t just stop looking.

Walking into the next room, he’s smothered by thick silence. Wants to turn and bolt on instinct at the feel of it, almost palpable. But there’s Steve crowding up behind him in the doorway, blocking him in, and he doesn’t have much choice but to speak so—

“This it?” he asks Hop, not desperately at all. Hop nods and some of the tension clears. Enough that Billy can step inside the room and have room left over to breathe.

Place looks like a buncha fuckin monkeys got in and made themselves cozy. Wires run everywhere, Metal plates hulk in corners, huge and hobbled together, and the pieces and bits that could be anything as far as Billy’s concerned, mass into one giant monstrosity that takes up most of the room, blinking here and there almost ominously.

“Owens’d mentioned it before.” Hop pipes up. “Some experimental gadget he left here. Off the books. Just in case. They never did get that test in before everything went to hell.” He looks around the room again, eyes sweeping over the thing, shaking his head. “Probably clued me in out of curiosity as much as anything else, the bastard. But it’s looking more and more like we’re out of options. So I had a buddy from the electric company get the power back on up here for us.”

And then he shrugs. And Billy knows exactly what he means.

“You know,” Billy says, “With as much funding as you say those assholes had, I expected somethin a little more…” He trails off, gesturing, searching for the word he’s looking for. Gives up. “More.” He takes the thing in a moment longer, looks back to Hop. “I mean, does it even run? Can you even fucking work it?”

And the question has Hop pinching the bridge of his nose, pulling his hand away to reveal a glower.

“No. _I_ can’t.” Hop says, wiping down his mouth like he’s trying to keep the frustration from spilling out. He raises a hand, gesturing to the room the kids are slowly growing louder in. “But apparently Dustin can.”

“Dustin,” Steve says, nonplussed, from behind Billy. “Dustin?” Angrier now.

“So our lives are in the hands of a thirteen year old.” Robin says, nodding. “Great. Awesome. We’re all gonna die then,” Still nodding. “Good to know.”

Hearing more bitching starting up, Billy waves the rest of the group into silence and is kinda fuckin surprised when it actually works.

“So you’re telling me that Dustin—” Gestures vaguely through the wall at the kid in the other room. “ _Dustin_ , is the only one we’ve got that knows how to work this EMP shit?”

“Seems so.” Hop says, too politely. All tight smile for Billy. Like he’d rather just deck Billy than admit it.

Billy squeezes his eyes shut. Can feel his flayed waiting mindlessly in the field surrounding. Can feel Tommy’s flayed closing in. Closing. Always closing. Had been for days now and it was fucking suffocating.

Looks down at his watch. Eight more minutes till he maybe dies.

Till all those fucking people out there maybe—

“Fine,” he says.

Steve starts to protest and Billy makes a quieting gesture, throws him pleading eyes. Drop it, he implores. Let it be. Nothing we can do about it now, anyway. Nothing to do but to play out the hand. See who wins the pot. All in.

“Fine,” he repeats.

He feels Tommy’s flayed advancing, a meaty fist coming in to strike, a fucking full-on army marching toward them. Coming to a battle that _he’d_ provoked. Coming to fight an army that _he_ commands. And he tries to figure out when the fuck he’d become a general. When this bunch of innocent-not-so-innocent people had become his responsibility. His burden. Just standing out there. About to die. About to die and not even knowing it. And Billy doesn’t know if that makes it better or fucking worse.

Either way it’s time to end it.

Past time.

He doesn’t fuck with any more goodbyes. Doesn’t say another fucking word. And walking away from the station he can still feel the burn of Steve’s tight grip skinning down his wrist as he slipped silent out the door, not able to look back. He puts his cold palm over the painful reminder and presses in, pretends what he feels is warmth. Listens to the crunch of the snow underfoot, kicking up the already marred crust as he makes his way toward his army. Pictures the snow of this field pink with fresh blood and can’t get the image to leave.

CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH  
CRUNCH

A step out of sync. What the fuck? He stops suddenly and hears it again. An echoing—

CRUNCH

—carrying to him over the wind after he’s gone still. And he turns expecting Steve. Expecting a fight he does _not_ have the heart for right now. But it’s not Steve. It’s—

“Nope. Nah-uh. Go back.”

“I can fight,” El says. “Protect you.”

It doesn’t make it any better that she’s right.

“Go.” He points back to the station. Waits for her to give in.

El stares with those big brown eyes and just like with Steve he has no fucking clue what’s goin on behind them.

“Can’t stop me,” She says with finality and starts walking past him toward the flayed.

“The fuck I can’t,” he says weakly, _knowing_ he can’t. Knowing she’s won and adding a little more fucking worrying onto his to-do list. Gee, thanks kid.

Big help.

He starts after her, pressing his palm into what’s left of the false-warmth from Steve’s touch.

“When we win, we’ll go see California,” Steve had said when they’d first climbed to the red-lit roof, hugging himself against the rising wind, staring out at the waiting flayed, maybe looking past them toward the glow of an abandoned Hawkins. “You can show me around. Teach me how to surf.”

“You just assume I know how to surf,” Billy said, scooping a little snow up and pitching it playfully Steve’s way before coming in closer.

“I mean, don’t you?” Steve looked at him, his liquid-black eyes glowing up molten in the light then fading out, cooled.

“Of course I fucking do.”

Billy moved close enough to bask in the blaze coming up off Steve, coatless out there again in the cold and wouldn’t fucking accept Billy’s. Banked coals toasted Billy’s side and he leaned into the feeling. Was this what warm felt like?

They come up on the flayed with three minutes till he maybe dies. El walks out a few steps past the army, keeping her back to Billy as she stares across the field toward the backlit witch-wood of the bare winter forest. Then she shivers a little. Hadn’t brought a thick enough coat.

“You’re cold.”

“Not,” El says, still not turning to look at him.

“Nice and toasty back there at the station,” he says.

“ _Not_ cold,” she says. And she stares back over her shoulder defiantly.

Billy sighs.

“When we win,” Billy had said back there on the red-lit roof, “I’ll teach you how to surf and then we’ll rent a couple motorcycles—I know a guy; shady as fuck but he’s got good bikes—and we’ll drive up the coast.”

“You just assume I know how to ride a motorcycle,” Steve said with a grin.

“Of course you fucking don’t, Stevie," Billy said, returning it. "Doesn’t matter, though. Just means I get to teach you.”

And Steve leaned into his side after he said it. A blistering brand on his skin, even through all the layers of clothes. And he'd almost missed the burn. So Billy wrapped an arm around Steve's back to keep him close. Was this what warm felt like?

“Take my jacket,” Billy says with two minutes left till he maybe dies. “Fucking shivering is getting on my last nerve.”

He lays the jacket across her shoulders and after a tense pause she shrugs into it and pulls it tight around her, stamping blood back into her feet.

“Thank you,” She says, then after a moment— “Is that right? Should… say thank you?”

“Do I look like Miss Manners to you, Kid? I don’t give a shit. Say what you want.”

He folds his arms and stares out over the flat field, feeling her stare boring up into him.

“…friends?” he thinks he hears over the whistle of wind.

“What?” he says. Finally gives in and looks down.

“We… are friends.” She says, more sure, hugging his coat to her. “I say thank you to friends.”

And Billy doesn’t know what to say to that.

Should _he_ say fuckin thank you?

“When we win,” Steve had said back there on the red-lit roof, “we’ll drive up the coast, and my bike will break down cause I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but it’ll be alright, because we’ll get it fixed in this like, perfect town, right on the beach, and we’ll end up staying. We’ll find an apartment and go shopping for curtains and shit. It’ll be great.”

Billy grinned.

“When we win we’ll get an apartment,” he countered. “And agree not to give a shit about curtains. I’ll join up with the coast guard. And you’ll find _something_ you can do.” Steve laughed once, breathy and sardonic. “I’ll make a big ol cage for Franklin to hang in, too. It’ll be great.”

Steve turned and leaned in close, sad smile leaving an impression in Billy’s shirt. And Billy took in the slack on his arm, drawing Steve in even closer. And again he wondered. Was this what warm felt like?

“There,” El says, pointing, with one minute left till he maybe dies.

He can see them too. Tommy’s flayed. Shit, he’d been able to feel them coming the moment they started out. Even with Tommy’s resisting, his fighting Billy’s attempts to probe deeper, keep tabs, struggling every step of the way. Billy’s head fucking hurts from trying to get a clear picture of their approach, but he’s getting enough. Tommy can’t stop him peeking.

And he can’t stop Tommy coming.

Tommy, bringing more flayed than Billy has to repel him. He’d somehow gained the advantage.

Billy wakes his flayed and feels the flutter of their movement behind him like a giant fucking cape clasped tight around his neck, fluttering in the rising wind, choking off his air with its weight.

He’d never asked for this. He didn’t want this.

And now he’s maybe gonna die trying to save them. To save all these fucking strangers. And he just has one question.

Where has selfish, lone wolf, dirty dealing Billy fucking Hargrove fucked off to, leaving him here to hold the bag? Where’s _that_ asshole at? Where was _he_ when every goddamn thing in Billy’s life had been leading him up the high road against his will? Where’s the guy that would’ve kept him outa trouble? Guy who’d fuck anyone over to survive? Guy that’d never be standing here like this. Not in a million years. Just waiting here like this, like some goddamn fucking martyr with a halo painting a target on his head.

Like some big goddamn hero.

But it doesn’t matter where he’d gone. Not in the end. Because Tommy’s army keeps drawing closer.

And Billy can only wait.

“When we win,” Steve had whispered back there on the red-lit roof, “we’ll be—”

Billy brushed his mouth over Steve’s soft hair. Didn’t speak. Waited for the end of that half-scared half-embarrassed thought to come.

“We’ll be… a family?”

And Billy had to swallow down a lump in his throat at the wounded way the words had punched outta the guy. The question at the end, like he wasn’t quite clear on the fucking concept. Like he wasn’t daring to hope that Billy’d say yes. 

Jesus, Steve.

“You, me, Franklin,” Billy manages, nodding. “One big happy fuckin family.”

As long as Steve wanted him. As long as they could hold onto whatever the fuck this was between them. Because when Billy thought of home now, he thought of Steve. He thought of _Steve_.

“When we win,” Steve says.

“When we win,” Billy agrees, nodding.

“If we win,” Steve says.

Billy backs up enough to look at him. Kisses away a tear track and forces the next tear that falls to forge a new path down Steve’s cheek.

“And if we don’t win. If you— You want me to stay here alone. Running from monsters. For the rest of my life.”

Steve no longer feels warm under Billy’s hands. Billy’d been fucking fooling himself on that count. Not warm at all. Scalding. He drops the guy like a hot pan.

“I don’t _want_ —” Billy backs away, words abandoning him. Turns away to try and gather himself. Wanders over to the edge and watches the storm roll in, not knowing how to fill the icy quiet. Not able to let himself think about failure. About that what if. About what Steve’s really asking of him.

No.

Nothing’s gonna happen to Billy.

Nothing.

He thinks of Franklin, warm at Hop’s cabin. He knocks snow off the lip of the roof to fall to the ground.

Thinks of home. Turns to Steve.

“It’s time,” he finally says.

It’s time.

Tommy steps forward from the motionless army parked not fifty yards from Billy’s. Billy watches for a beat. Finally moves out to meet him, throwing out an arm to stop the kid from following.

He looks at her. She looks at him. For once, she gives in.

The walk across the unmolested snow seems to take longer than ever. Fat white flakes begin falling, only it’s more like they’re dive-bombing on a kamikaze air current, slamming diagonal to earth, pelting him in the face with more force than they should have. 

Visibility turns to absolute shit.

But he’d been expecting it. He’d seen it comin. He marches on.

Tommy’s grin is easy enough to pick out as he nears. The only problem is that the grin is plastered up on the wrong face.

“Fucking chickened out, huh?” Billy says, smiling as best he can when he draws up feet away. “Goddamn, did I call that shit or did I call it?”

Billy takes the measure of the man before him. Takes in the height, the limp blonde hair, the sharp features and ruddy cheeks of the man that’s standing here wearing Tommy’s grin. That insufferable fucking twinkle shining out of all-wrong eyes.

“I only wish I’d laid money down on it. Knew a coward like—”

A loud ripping CRACK echoes through the clearing, clear even over the howl of the wind. Billy’s eyes shoot up automatically to the tree-line; shoot to the hulking monstrosity that’s emerging from it, pushing its way through into the clearing and fuck any tree in its way. One large trunk comes crashing down onto the flat snow with a series of POPs and a CRASH that shakes Billy’s bones, even from this distance.

It roars. It roars so loud that the volume of it leaves Billy’s hearing furry afterwards.

It’s grown.

The meaty body of the thing jumps into focus, even through the driving snow, with every blink of that goddamn red light. An immense shadow, not quite hidden by the veil of white that obscures it. 

Fuck.

It stays there at the tree-line, eerily still, watching. Watching him. Billy can feel its stare, the cold intelligence behind it. Watching him and watching El.

Double fuck.

Not-Tommy’s grin catches Billy’s eye again and only seems to grow wider as Billy watches.

“Oh. That surprised you,” Not-Tommy says, tilting his head and chuckling. “Nothing witty to say? Guess you didn’t lay down any money on _that_ shit, did you? Pity.”

“Cute pet,” Billy says, finally. And his voice is barely shaking. “We fighting or not?”

“Fight,” Not-Tommy says in his strange deep voice. “Yeah. Oh, we’ll fight. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about _that_. But I thought we might do a little business first.”

And just the barest hint of desperation comes into his eyes.

“I’ll trade you,” he says, voice sounding more like the stupid fucking teenager than the slick-as-fuck monster, Tommy coming to the surface as a group of flayed come forward from the main army. “Okay? Them for her.” And it comes out all shook up. All Tommy. The human Tommy. “It’s a good deal!” he whines. “C’mon!”

“Got those blue-balls bad, huh?” Billy says, trying to pry his eyes from all the stolen family members that had come forward for his perusal. Neil. Susan. He can’t look at them. Can’t stand to. Because he knows he has to say—“No,” to Not-Tommy’s proposal. Has to say—“No deal.”

“What was that?” Not-Tommy’s grin inverts, the monster creeping back in through the shock. “Must’ve misheard you.”

Billy steps forward. Gets right up in Not-Tommy’s stupid nordic face.

“Said no, Dumb Fuck,” he says, putting on a wicked grin of his own that’s mostly him trying not to fucking puke at the thought of what’s to come. “No. Deal.”

And Not-Tommy rocks back. Steps back. Looks completely lost for a few seconds. 

He seems to fold in on himself, pacing a tight line and hugging his ribs, mumbling to himself. Rips at his hair. Turns and stops and stares wide-eyed at Billy, body bent in an unnatural backwards bow, just suspended there like the puppet he is, and he grins that fucking inhuman grin one more time. 

“You wanna fight?” he finally yells, gesturing violently to Billy. Causing a ripple to run through the army behind him. “Alright then. Let’s fight!” And he tilts further back, face raised to the roiling orange sky above, and he lets out a gleeful, unnerving war-shriek. And the piercing sound of it is soon drowned out by the crunching rumble of thousands of feet sprinting across hard-crust snow. Sprinting straight for Billy.

Before he can even un-stick his muscles to run, Billy feels a sensation that’s becoming a little too fucking familiar, honestly. Tries to keep his chin up off his chest, teeth clicking as he’s reeled zipping backwards, away from Not-Tommy, barely fucking keeping his footing and packing his boots full of ice for his troubles. 

Rescued by a goddamn little girl. Again. 

Great for the old ego, he’s gotta say.

When he comes to a stop he doesn’t even hesitate, settles his weight on his feet and grabs El’s arm, pulls her along in an all-out sprint as he gives the order for his troops to retreat.

Just like they’d fucking planned.

A quick glance tells him that Not-Tommy and his army have taken the bait, too. Following him, drawn further and further into the trap. And Billy takes them further still. Further and further and as close as he can fucking get till he plants his forces and holds there, backs to the wall of the old TV station. They don’t know what kind of range the goddamn EMP will have, after all.

And as the flood of bodies comes crashing toward him through the driving snow, he roars out his own fucking battle cry. Dares them to come and get him. Come and get them all. Feels his roar echoed through the mouths of his entire army. Hears it from El at his side, a wild shriek, arms out and the power in her ready and waiting to unleash hell.

When they hit, the whole horde of them, there’s no telling up from down. Blinded by the snow. Blinded by the sheer crush of biting, clawing, striking humanity. Like being tossed by a huge fucking wave and caught up in its tumble. Like drowning. So when the pulse comes, Billy has no warning. He’s not even fucking thinking about it. Waiting for it. He’s only thinking about survival. He’s second to second.

One second, he’s staring up the slick red length of a knife blade, trying to disarm the fucker who’s wielding it without tearing his arm off, mind scattered between a thousand other fucking fights. The blade inching close in his indecision.

Next second comes with a great goddamn PING echoing into and through his mind, forcing it in on itself. Out of the flayed. A muffled sound as he’s buried in bodies, as thousands of people collapse into sudden unconsciousness.

All he knows as he wakes up to the knife blade sunk deep in the ground an inch from his neck, as he levers a heavy-ass middle-aged dentist off a tiny black librarian lady so he can haul her off his painful abdomen, can get the fuck up, is that he ain’t dead.

He’s fucking alive.

And that’s enough.

He allows himself a cathartic fucking laugh of relief, watching El un-bury herself from the tangle of limbs spilled over her, making sure that she’s alright, before he closes his eyes and gets to work.

Cringes at the thought of the fucking pain he’s about to be in.

And then he slips on into hundreds of minds. Thousands of minds. Breaks in just like with Franklin. With Steve. Feels himself split up thousands of ways into thousands of parts, all whole and none whole and feels each part searching. Reaching. Finding that big red button labeled push to purge in all those goddamn beautiful horrible complicated fucking minds.

When the screaming starts, when Billy’s done pushing buttons, he lets go. Knows he’s gonna collapse. Only half surprised to be caught up by El instead of the ground.

He tries to rally. Tries to struggle, to get his uncooperative fucking feet under him.

They have to get to the cars.

Slipping on the black vomit-ooze that’s turning the ground into a slushy fucking mess, pulling free from the constant hands that grasp at them, plead for them to make the pain stop, they pick their way over the battlefield, Billy blurring in and out of consciousness and about to kick the next motherfucker in the face that tries to talk to him about pain. El keeps them both upright with a mixture of stubborn strength and her power. And Billy’s impressed. Even through the kill-me-now fucking pain in his head he’s impressed. They’re moving. Making progress.

Then comes the gurgling screeching completely fucking not-of-this-world roar to stop them in their tracks.

The force of the sound hits them from behind, almost solid; trickles into the prey part of their brains and brews unthinking panic there, causing the hairs to stand straight fucking up along the entirety of Billy’s body.

And the only thought that gets through is this string of oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

“Oh shit,” he says, the thought slipping out in a barely-there voice. He looks back to see the thing advancing on them. Feels the next word more than hears it. “Run!”

But the pop and crackle of a firework overhead tells him they’re too fucking late for that. For running. For a rendezvous with the group. For a last goodbye. He pulls El to the ground as the thing stomps closer. Closer. Roars again at another pop-crackle of a firework from the side of the building, a blessed diversion.

Billy watches the giant fucking monster advance on their friends, clearing the stinging snow from his eyes to keep focused on its progress. Hears engines roaring away. Hears _it_ roaring to match. Feels the tremble of each step it makes shudder up into him from the ground, less and less violently as it trails away, out of sight. Stalking after his friends. His family. 

One more burst of brilliant color highlights the snowy sky, so much further down the road now. Completely out of reach. The firework fizzles out, its blooming sparks dead with their first breath of life.

And when its gone, he can finally rise shakily to his feet.

“You alright?” he asks El. Ignores the groans and shivers from the thousands of people coming back to themselves around him. Ignores his fucking head. His weak limbs.

El nods, scared eyes darting back toward the quickly dissipating smoke their friend’s diversion had left behind. The last evidence of them. The only connection left.

“Good,” he says, pulling her slowly along to the door of the TV station and their supplies. “Time to save the fucking day.”

He takes one last look toward town. Pretends he doesn’t hear the thing roar one last time. Then he turns and doesn’t fucking look again. He needs to focus.

Because it’s _not_ “if we win.” Not if he can fucking help it. No, it’s definitely _when we win_.

When we win, Stevie.

It’s _when_ we win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And so it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s Over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier  
> 24\. Kiss with a Fist – Florence + the Machine  
> 25\. Colorblind - Counting Crows  
> 26\. Prove My Love – Violent Femmes  
> 27\. Who Wants to Live Forever – Queen


	28. Split-Second Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Okay. Okay, you guys. Now I want you to do something. I want you to look at the number of chapters left in this story, okay? See? I just posted it. We’ve got two more after this. Now you just remember that when you get to the end of this chapter, okay? Two more chapters. Remember that and you’ll be fine.
> 
> I promise.

Something’s wrong.

With him.

Inside.

They’d been walking for at least an hour. Maybe two. Maybe more. Billy refuses to look at his watch anymore tonight. There’d been enough of that shit. He watches El’s back as they slog through the drifted snow, every footfall crunching too loud in the still-again air. The orange city light can’t find them this deep in the woods. The moon has all but given up on them. All they have is the jitter of their flashlights like excited dogs ranging over the ground they walk, the two of them going for something like a straight line in the direction of the gate. He’s sure not to shine his beam up onto El. Wishes he could un-see the way his leather jacket hangs on her like she’s fucking five years old or something, like she’s helpless. Wishes he didn’t know what was fucked up inside him. Wishes the creeping, pulled-taught-rubber-band feeling inside’s him just imagining shit. That he’s wrong. For her sake he bothers to hope that he’s wrong. But he also knows he’s not wrong. Knows exactly what _is_ wrong. Of course he does. Because it’s pretty goddamn obvious what’s wrong with him, isn’t it?

He’d been bumped back onto the wrong fucking frequency is what. And now that fucking thing is back. Mind Flayer. Monster. Pain in his ass. Worming it’s way back inside him. Tugging with that rubber band tug again tryin to get control. And Billy only wishes that was the end of his troubles.

Shadows dart through the trees to his right. He clocks them in his peripheral vision. Been catching them for a while now. And maybe it’s just Tommy with a rogue band of leftover flayed; just _his_ sorry ass waiting to pounce out there—Billy swears he’s seen Tommy’s smug fucking face a few times, watching from out there in the dark. But then again, maybe it’s—

“Don’t you want them to live?” A perfect copy of Billy whispers as its still figure passes to his left. 

Maybe it’s just his imagination.

Tries not to look at the thing, wearing his image. Like walking past a funhouse mirror and meeting yourself in three dimensions. No one should ever have to fuckin do that.

Billy forces himself not to flinch when what could be his own hand reaches out to brush over his shoulder as he passes. Doesn’t shiver when it makes contact. Cold contact. Real contact with weight and texture.

So it is real.

Except he’s the only one that can see it. Hear it. El walks on oblivious.

So maybe it’s not.

So maybe he’s just gone fucking crazy over here. And maybe he hopes he has. Maybe that’d be better than the alternative.

“It’s your choice,” It whispers behind him. And Billy keeps his eyes on the ground, the trees ahead. Can’t look back. Can’t look forward at that tiny kid’s back swimming in his coat.

“All you have to do—” it says now on his right, says with _his_ mouth in _his_ face, that mean, crude face that doesn’t change character with all the thing’s slick-talking smarmy expression. It’s a face not meant for nuance. And he’s fine with that. More now than ever. “—is let us in,” it finishes.

It’s not earning itself any points with Billy coming at him out of his own face is all he’s sayin. Like he’d ever fucking listen to himself. Like he’d ever trust himself.

Thing’s a moron.

“You let us in and they’re safe,” it says, passing him once more, still as he walks, all blonde curly hair and hard-wired scowl to his right again.

“We’re safe,” it says then, only it must’ve been listening in on his thoughts. Because this time it says it through the mouths of all those nerd kids and their families. Through Robin and Hop. The whole wild bunch. All surrounding him as he walks on through the group, eyes to the ground. All watching his progress except—

“And I’m safe,” it says, from the left, words coming out of just one mouth once again. —Except Max, he’d been thinkin. Max had been missing, and— But here she is now, eyes all hard and pleading at once. And the fucking thing really knows how to play dirty, doesn’t it. The thing—

“Just say yes. Say yes and _I’ll_ be safe, too.” 

Steve, standing in the path ahead, big brown eyes on Billy as he slogs closer. And this time, when Billy walks past, Steve moves to match pace. “Isn’t that what you want, Man? Isn’t that why you booted that thing out of me? Why you won’t give me permission to die with some fucking dignity? Because you want me to live, no matter what it costs?”

“Oh, fuck you. Go away,” he hisses at the thing wearing Steve’s face. Shakes his head and tries to keep his fucking eyes off it. Off Steve.

El stops.

“You said something?” she says, turning to look at him, questioning. Doesn’t find anything good on his face when she does. “You’re… okay?” she finally asks, quiet.

And he’s not. Nope. Far from it. But he nods to her anyway. Wipes his somehow sweating brow and motions her to keep going, no doubt looking as hunted and twitchy as he feels.

She stays put for so long he thinks she’s gonna press the matter, but with an expression that shifts quickly from confusion over to worry she turns and begins walking again. Tiny frame swimming in that black fucking coat of his.

“Think about it,” Steve whispers into his ear, all wrong, too cold. “It’s only one. Little. Girl. I’m not worth that much to you? Come on.”

Billy starts walking double-time to catch up. Doesn’t answer the thing. Doesn’t look at Steve’s face. Sees the shadows darting once again, out there in the cover of the trees.

Doesn’t see when the thing projects itself directly into his path. Can’t stop in time to keep from running into it. Into Steve’s familiar body. He’s forced to look it in the eye. Those big fucking brown eyes, all wrong, looking back.

“You see,” the thing says, giving up the charade, “you’re stronger than we’d hoped.” And familiar lips are suddenly on his. A brief, deep kiss. Gone before he can jerk away at the fucked familiarity. 

“And you could be very, very useful to us.” it breathes. “We want you much more than we thought we would.”

El is waiting for him to catch up. Searching the woods.

“Following,” she says. “Can hear them out there. Not hiding anymore.”

She turns back and her eyes are still those wide worried things that had last looked at him.

“It’s following too,” she says. “Mind Flayer. In you.”

“Hey, look,” he says, wanting to wipe that worried wary look off her face, “it’s not—”

“Not stupid,” she says simply. “Friends don’t lie.” And she waits. And Steve waits. They wait for Billy to give them what they want.

“We should keep goin,” he says. And for a moment she looks hurt. Disappointed. But in the end she turns away. Starts walking again.

And Billy starts walking too, hating himself, Steve smiling to himself as he strolls along beside Billy.

The silence after is as bad as it ever was for him. The crunch of snow just adding context to the fucking ringing quiet of the forest. The quiet between them.

It’s almost a relief when Tommy attacks. When the last of the once great flayed army melt out of the woods and get Steve smiling even wider. It’s not like it’s surprising. It’s not like Billy hadn’t been waiting for it. Maybe hoping for it. 

What does surprise Billy is a gagged and sobbing Carol, slung over a burly flayed’s shoulder and shivering in the cold. The way Tommy stops and kisses her cheek absently before breaking from the group to walk forward.

How sweet. True love.

“So you’re back now, huh? With us?” Tommy says, conversationally.

The guy glares for a beat, hands akimbo. Posture like he’s confident. And it’s a good show. But don’t bullshit a bullshitter, as they say. Billy sees the fear there, through all the posturing. He sees it.

Fucking hates how familiar it is.

“And you think you can just step in and take over, I suppose?” Tommy asks, not really asking. 

“Like always? Like before? Well—” He crosses his arms. “I’m not sitting second string _again_ , Hargrove,” he says, teeth bared now. “Nah. I’ll kill you first.”

He spits in the snow. Wipes his mouth. Billy’s eyes flick to that thing wearing Steve, but it’s just waiting there, face enigmatic as the fucking sphinx. This it’s idea of a good time? A joke?

An interview?

“Yeah, fuck that,” Tommy says, dropping his arms again and rolling his shoulders. “I’ll just kill you.” 

Tommy growls as he comes for Billy. And as easy as that, Billy’s in a fight. 

What he wouldn’t have given for this kind of simplicity in another life.

Tommy strikes, snakelike, and Billy blocks just as fast. Not as fast now as they once were, either of them. Less flayed to pull their power from. But it’s fast enough. Complicated enough to fucking handle, thanks. Tommy strikes again and Billy doesn’t dodge in time to escape the hit, which sucks, but Billy’s follow through, the leg sweep that sends Tommy careening off through the fresh powder in a whirling blur, is almost worth the pain it’d cost.

The flayed begin to move. Billy’s so distracted that at first he doesn’t take more than cursory notice, but when he hears El gearing up to join in the fight, a sudden spike of anger runs him through.

“Get the hell outta here!” he yells, bolting over as Tommy rights himself from the jarring tumble. Billy picks her up and sends her rough and stumbling in the direction of the gate. Stands guard against any flayed that might try to pass, at the same time wriggling in past Tommy’s mental hold to get control of any flayed he can. To gain some kind of advantage. Some time. 

“They’re out there with that _thing_ , buying us time!” he reminds her, reminded himself. “Counting on us to _get this shit done_. All of them! So go finish it.”

“But…,” she says, frowning. “How will you know?” Her gaze darts over to Tommy who’s gaining his feet and she tumbles him back thirty feet with a mental shove. Brings her attention back to Billy.

“I—” Billy says. Hesitates. Almost tells her what she already knows. That he fucking _won’t_ know when the gate is closing. That he’s fucked anyway because he’s back on the Mind Flayer’s fucking frequency and can’t purge the thing out of himself. That he’ll be dropping dead like the rest when she ends this. 

But she’s just a kid. 

Despite everything, the powers, the strength, she’s just a kid, standing there swimming in his leather jacket. So in the end, he settles on a lie. And unlike Steve, for all she might protest, he thinks she might prefer it. 

“I’ll feel it, okay?”

Her eyes hold his. Those too-old too-young eyes. “Not stupid,” they say. 

“I’ll feel it closing in time,” he tells her, repeats it, his own eyes as sincere as he can make them.

And her face is a study of carefully controlled pain and guilt and defiance. But in the end she lies too. She nods. Pretends to believe him.

And then she leaves. Disappears.

Just in time for Tommy to throw himself back into the fight. And Billy misses the trick, watching her go. Takes a ringing blow to the temple and stumbles fuzzy to his hands and knees only to be met with a boot to the ribs. Almost laughs at the nostalgia the sharp pain brings. His comfort food. A glancing kick to the jaw plants his face in the snow and he’s near giggling as he rises, shakily, to his hands and knees.

“You just going to lie there and take this beating like a little bitch?” Neil is saying, crouched near Billy’s head where moments before there had been Steve. “We had higher hopes for you, Son.”

“Get fucked,” Billy says, grinning red up at the thing. Spits a crimson glob at Neil’s feet. Neil stands.

“What the fuck did you say to me?!” Tommy screams.

“Looks to me that’s _your_ specialty,” the thing pretending to be his father says. “Must be all that practice with your little fag buddy.” 

The impression is a little too fuckin good. Uncanny. And it has Billy full on laughing as Tommy hauls him up and delivers a few solid knees to his abdomen. All his air rushes out with the first blow, and even that doesn’t fucking stop him laughing. It just makes the soundless heaving of it hurt more. Makes it harder to kickstart a breath once Tommy’s done with him.

He rolls into the snow. Ends up on his back and just giggles drunkenly up into the patchy sky peeking through the spiderweb branches of trees.

“Hey Tommy,” Billy says, giggles subsiding only to start up again once he turns his face the idiot’s way and sees him pull a big-ass Bowie knife from his boot. They make it hard to ask— “You ever get the feeling you forgot something important?”

And the look on Tommy’s face when he’s grabbed up doesn’t make the laughing any fucking easier to stop. When he’s held down by his own flayed, now Billy’s flayed, converted while Tommy was letting out a little rage on Billy’s hide.

“Oh,” the thing says, wearing Steve’s face again, wearing it with a grin. “We like you. In fact,” it says, strolling close and studying the scene Tommy makes struggling in the tangle of restraining bodies, not much more than an angry face on a freckled head sticking out of a flabby-armed headlock. “You’re hired.”

One flayed breaks from the group and grabs for Tommy’s head, grips it and twists it off, quick, just a few cracks and a meaty rip, spins it off like a pop cap. And it happens so fast that the flayed has dropped the head and the thing wearing Steve has stepped clear of the thick geyser spurt of Tommy’s still-pumping blood before Billy’s even realized what’s happened. Before his laughter catches up and stops dead, only for Carol’s freshly un-gagged scream to tap in and enter the ring for him.

The scream seems to last minutes. The pitiless way the thing has Steve’s copied eyes regarding Carol makes the familiar face look completely foreign. Alien. Not Steve’s face at all. Which is almost a comfort to Billy. And fuck, if ever he needed one….

The thing pulls its tiny satisfied smile up from Carol who’d taken a breath only to scream again. It finds Billy’s face.

“Oops,” it says, smile hitched higher for a split second before subsiding. “Have we upset you? Not likely to accept our offer now, are you? Mmm. No.” It tilts Steve’s head. “You humans are so new to us. The way you work. So complex; so delicate. So… fun.”

It moves closer, the flayed moves eerily with it, sending a thick backhand into the side of Carol’s face as it strolls past that hits her hard enough to stop her scream cold. To spill her sideways, unconscious, Jesus, hopefully just unconscious, into the snow where she lies, still. 

Billy can’t pull his eyes away. The flayed stands, stupid, at her side. Waiting for further command.

“We wanted you to come willingly into all this, Billy,” it says with an overly dramatic sigh as it keeps moving closer. Close enough that Billy can’t help but look at it. Look at Steve’s face that doesn’t look like Steve at all anymore. Not Steve’s face at all. Not really. Nope. Billy shivers. 

“It would have been more fun for us,” it confides, stopping not a foot from Billy. “But we’ve always found consent to be more of a guideline than a rule.”

And the tension on the rubber band cranks back up so suddenly that Billy’s legs give out under him. Become _it’s_ legs.

No.

No no no no no no no. Fuck that.

He takes back the legs enough to paddle through the snow. Drag himself through the warm wet puddle of Tommy’s blood and over his still-twitching body, searching frantically in the cherry slush at the corpse’s side for it. _It_! The one thing that might buy him some time. The—

His fingers find the hard handle of the Bowie knife and quick drive the blade hard into his own abdomen, low and to the side. Hopefully missing the important shit. Pain blooms and he pants in relief, bent over the knife. Pants through the pain for the clear head it brings him. Alone with the flayed in the clearing. Alone with the flayed—

 _Hell_.

They come at him. Come for the knife. And he gives it to them. Says his sorrys every fucking time he slips it home in one of them and ends their lives. But he has to stop them. Has to. Has to stay himself. He has to stay away from El and the gate. He has to. 

Which he thinks is a shitty deal too. Because it suddenly seems like there’s a few dozen of these fuckers to fight through.

And it turns out that's too many.

Finally, they just fucking overwhelm him. Pure numbers game. They grab him up and drag him off, prying the knife from his blood-slick hands and pulling him along the path that El had taken towards the gate. And the thing, still wearing a rented Steve, blinks back into existence and starts talking again once the pain dips just a bit below blinding, that unnatural crawl of healing beneath Billy’s skin making him all better again. Knitting him right the fuck up. Though slower now, it seems. Weaker with less flayed to draw from, Billy’d guess. If he fucking cared enough to guess.

“Now,” the thing makes Steve’s mouth say. “Don’t you feel silly?”

Billy huffs out one dry snort of laughter. Watches the sky through the woven branches. Tries to ignore its voice, so much and so little like Steve’s. Wishes he could look at his watch. Because when the fuck will this night be over?

Is she there yet? Is he about to die?

His ass thunks down in a divot dug through the snow. The fuck would make tracks like that, way the hell out here? In the sky above him, a great horizontal gash cuts the forest canopy in two, the thinnest black wire running dead center in the gap, barely visible. And the sight kicks some dusty thought loose in his head. And though he can feel the fucking Mind Flayer buzzing around tryin to work at his brain, he’s still in enough pain to be in full control. So while he still can, he pushes that control out into the flayed.

Makes them stop.

Makes them drop his arms.

Makes them start fighting among themselves.

He scrambles away through the melee, digging his finger into the hole in his fucking side to block out the furious words he can see forming on Steve’s stolen visage. Pain blooms. His thoughts sharpen. The Steve thing disappears.

And while he still has the strength, he follows the line in the sky above. Follows the snowmobile tracks in the snow below. Stumbles away from the flayed, still ripping into one another, and looks for it. Looks. Because it’s gotta fucking be here somewhere.

The next utility tower. Following the tracks in the snow he damn near runs into it. Billy stands at the base of it and cranes his head up till he sees the top. Pulls the hooked finger from his wound and takes a pained breath in. Lets it out real slow.

It’s climbable. It’s doable. This will work.

All he needs is a little frequency bump if he wants to survive this. 

What he’s got is a big one. A big, deadly, frequency bump. What he’s got is a live fucking power line, let’s call it like we see it. But whatever the fuck he can get, right? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

He swallows, still staring up. Rubs his hands together as if that will help.

Says a prayer like he knows what he’s doin.

He doesn’t take the time to check his watch. El has to be there by now. At the gate. There and maybe fucking waiting, stupidly, for him. And so he doesn’t look at his watch and he does start to climb. He focuses on the top. Reach the top and live. Probably. So fucking tired at this point that the climb is more for the sake of Steve than himself. For the sake of Steve’s happiness, because that’s somehow been tangled up with Billy's existence.

He climbs. As fast as he can. Feels death behind him, following him close, breath held in anticipation at every painful lunge Billy makes for a beam. Every foot gained skyward. A fall from this height would break a leg. Now a fall from this height would break a back. Now a fall from this height would turn him into fucking jello.

He climbs. Gets going so quickly, with such a rhythm, that when he reaches the top he doesn’t even stop to catch his breath. He hauls his body up, one hand still gripping the metal tower, and lets his other hand curl around the live wire.

He feels every muscle in his body seize. Smells burnt pork chops and sees his mom crying over a smoky oven. Hears a crackling explosion and sees fireworks, hears tires screeching, feels panic at the thought of that monster after Steve. Panic, but no pain. He’s free of that. Just weightless in the whipping wind for an eternity wrapped in the split-second before—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And so it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s Over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier  
> 24\. Kiss with a Fist – Florence + the Machine  
> 25\. Colorblind – Counting Crows  
> 26\. Prove My Love – Violent Femmes  
> 27\. Who Wants to Live Forever – Queen  
> 28\. Broken Crown – Mumford and Sons


	29. Monster Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I love this story. Kinda freaking out that it's almost at an end.
> 
> Love you guys too, of course. What's a story with no one to read it? 
> 
> So if you're feeling in the holiday spirit, comment me a present, huh? As always, love to hear what you think.

Here again, huh?

It’s the first thought he has.

And a place like this should never feel familiar.

Boring.

The fucking black place. The warm dark threatening black. The liquid ground of the place ripples under him. The ever-impatient thing waits below. The black.

Back again.

Billy just lies there, belly down, head tilted, limbs all wrong where they rest. The not-wet not-water laps at his cheek, obscuring half his vision where it covers his left eye, tickling at his nostril, almost seeping in. Almost. And he can’t move. Can’t even blink.

Because he’s dying.

He can feel that he’s dying. Remembers what it felt like.

Remembers it from last time.

And been-there-done-that he can’t even manage any fear over it.

He just waits for it. Alone and unmoving and suspended in darkness.

And what he wouldn’t give for one last fucking glimpse of Steve. Just one more. Shit, if you’re taking requests, how bout at least a billion more. Just for starters. How bout that, huh?

How bout it?

Eyes closed, thinking of Steve, just waiting to fucking die and honestly wishing it’d hurry the fuck up if it’s gonna happen because there’s this itch on his nose that—he becomes aware of a warm glow seeping in through his heavy lids. Opens em up and takes a look around, because hey, what if it’s a Christmas miracle, right? 'Tis the season. Or his guardian angel, maybe. Maybe it’s his fairy fucking godmother. He’ll take it. Hell, he’s not picky.

It’s better, though. Better than any of that. It’s Steve there in front of him, lit from the inside like people always are in this place.

Whadda you know? It is a Christmas miracle after all. His last wish, come true.

Even better. It’s all of them, from what he can see in his limited line of vision. And for a moment he’s so fucking happy to see them—to see Steve—one more time that he doesn’t notice the fear in their eyes. The way they’re ducked down and hiding. The way Steve’s covering his ears and Billy can’t even see the guy’s eyes, screwed shut like they are. It’s the eyes that snap Billy the fuck out of it, really. The fact that he can’t even see Stevie’s eyes.

Some miracle.

So he looks past Steve. Past the rest. Looks up as best he can with his tired, fucking drying-out unblinking eyeballs to see sparks flying from a decked-out stage, from the speakers set up there. To see a few stray flayed up there wreaking havoc. Pulling at wires and smashing electronics.

To see the massive writhing blob of half-formed flesh the monster had become begin to slowly flow back into recognizable form.

Shit.

Shit! He can’t fucking die if this is— Not now. He’s gotta—

Gotta what, Hargrove? He still can’t move. Is still dying, whether he likes it or not. Stuck here slowly fading in this inky fucking in-between land. Just watching Steve’s final moments. Max’s. Useless. And where the fuck is El? Why hasn’t the gate closed yet?

Of course, as soon as he demands to know, she’s there before him. Steve and the rest gone and Billy fucking panicking.

He sees exactly why she hasn’t fucking closed the gate.

She stands before the rip in the world, hunched and bleeding. One worm lunges out at her and she forces it back inside with the rest. Starts to close the gate. Heal the edges. Is knocked sideways, tumbling, by a great winged blur swooping down from the trees. Battered violently forward toward the gate by more blows as the fucking moths that he’d all but forgotten strike out at her, fly down at her, one after another after another, tumbling her closer to the dark gaping void.

She barely avoids a lunging strike from one great gluey worm. Tumbles herself back through the snow with a burst from her powers. Lands on her side and curls into herself, crying out in frustration and pounding a tiny fist into the snow.

Hundreds of moths fluttering, waiting, surrounding her. The trees alive with the fucking things.

Well, he can’t just die now, can he?

Not after seeing that.

And just like that, he realizes he doesn’t have to. Sees what he can do. What he’s gotta do. Right there. The whole time. Fucking obvious.

He’s a goddamn idiot sometimes.

He closes his eyes on the black. Feels his eyes closing back in the forest. Feels out for the flayed. Any flayed. All the flayed. And he pulls.

Pulls in their strength and pulls himself up outta the grave, screaming at the pain of his pulverized bones and organs grinding back into something like their correct places. Creating form and structure out of the fucking meat-paste in a skin-tube that the long drop and quick stop had left him as.

He pulls until he’s standing. Pulls till there’s no more strength, life, left to take, all the flayed left drained and husked out after he’s done with them. Fucking vampire. And he doesn’t feel bad about it either. Doesn’t have time for that shit.

Doesn’t stop when he passes the lifeless group of flayed he’d run from earlier, not even really seeing them, just reconnecting with El’s trail in a limping shuffle. He’ll worry about it later.

Plenty of time later.

Worried enough for now about the way he still needs to hug himself to keep his insides in the right place, his body still bubbling unpleasantly, drinking up the last of the stolen life, stolen energy. Worried about putting one foot in front of another as he follows the tiny footprints in the snow.

Needs to go faster.

Falls when he tries to go faster and barely makes it back up on his still-healing legs, re-breaking them twice in the process. Gobbling up even more of the finite power to heal that shit. Fuck. The power he still fucking needs. He hobbles along once he’s on his feet, just deals with the maddeningly slow pace. Can’t afford another fall. Ignores the pain of his mending legs and just hopes there’s enough power to last him. To get him there. To let him be of some fucking help once he arrives.

Has to pause to puke blood and almost passes out from the pain of it. Reminds himself he can’t die.

Can’t die yet.

Keep walking, Hargrove.

The white snow melting into black water beneath his feet has him groaning. The forest disappearing, forcing him to follow ripples instead of footprints. Back in the black, fucking faded out again. Against his will.

Should have some say in that shit. You would think. And it's not fair. And he laughs at that. Not fair. Hell.

Can’t afford this little detour, though. It's _not_ fucking fair. He keeps walking, all he can do, hoping his body is doing the same back in reality. Can’t fucking think. His head, he can’t— He feels the caved in mess of it in the back, where he landed, just reaches up and— And his thoughts keep blurring around the edges. And he stumbles. Catches himself. Keeps walking, eyes unfocused, unable to track the trail, find the ripples, find the—trail and he’s—

Picks his face up out of the water and immediately hauls himself up to a crawl. Doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. Why the fuck he’s crawling with this goddamn sense of urgency in his gut but he’s— He just doesn’t know—

Where is he? He can’t think. Where—

It’s so dark. It’s so dark here and there’s something down there, below him.

Right there.

Something down there and he’s fucking scared. Fucking terrified of it. Of this place. And he can’t _think_. If he could just think. He rises, shaky to his feet. Starts walking.

“Steve?”

Remembers Steve. Wants Steve. Wants him because something’s happening inside his head. Fucking terrible. Some pressure and in his chest it feels like he’s been running on one lung and just now noticed, some nerves reconnecting, cluing him in. He can’t breathe. And everything’s dark and he can’t fucking see. And he’s so scared. Scared because of that _thing_ down there and scared because he knows he should be doing something. There’s something important—and he needs to go. Get out of here. Keep moving. But—

“Steve!”

Looks for the guy like he’ll just suddenly just _appear_. Know what to do. Stumbles and then plops down on his ass in the water. Eyes fluttering, stuttering his vision. Head nodding. He’s so fucking tired all of a sudden. He falls forward. Can’t even turn his face so he doesn’t drown. _Can_ he drown in this shit? He’s just so….

“Hey,”

Billy’s eyes shoot open at the sound. Steve. And they find Steve’s face the moment they open. The moment Billy lifts his face from the dry water and turns it toward the sound. Steve’s face, eyes still closed. Still hidden from Billy. Not six inches from Billy’s face. And Steve’s smile there too, drawn up tight, pained.

“Where’d you come from?” Steve asks.

“Like I fucking know,” Billy says.

His eyes are drawn to the blood leaking slow from Steve’s pained fucking smile. And Billy’s half-breath catches faster at the sight. Hurts. Hurts.

“Bright side,” Steve whispers. “Probably won’t—need to figure out how to live without you now,” He shifts a little under the pile of heavy rubble that’s got him pinned into the wet floor. Quiet screams echo in the dark distance. Kids screams. And a shuddering roar makes Billy jump. Jogs his fucking memory. But he still can’t do much more than lay there and stare. Try to process those words. Bright side.

When he does finally fucking get it, the knowledge hits his brain carried on a flood of anger. And he remembers what he should be doing right now. Where he should be heading.

Remembers all of it. Where he should _be_ right now, not here, having to see—

“You don’t get to die,” Billy says, shaking his head. More angry than he’d ever remembered being.

“Might—” Steve says, wincing. “Might not have much of a choice there, Man.”

“No. Fuck that,” Billy says, “I don’t get to die, you don’t either, Asshole. After what I’ve—” Billy shuts up. Can’t think about what he’d had to do to stay alive. Has to save that shit for later. Much later. “No. I don’t care how hard it is. You fucking stay alive. You get me?”

And Steve fades out a little, face going slack, eyes still closed and moving fitfully behind the lids. Then he comes back. Smile slipping back on, weak but there. “What?” Confused for a moment, then his face clears. “Sure,” he says. Lies. Billy can tell. Steve flinches at another roar, louder this time. Closer.

“You—you just stay alive, okay Stevie?” Billy commands. “You do that, and I’ll go kill that thing. Deal?”

And the roar is deafening now. And Steve begins to wisp away. But before he does, Billy swears he hears an answer, faint, one word whispered on a breath.

“Deal.”

And since it’s a fucking deal, Billy doesn’t have to worry about Steve. Steve’s gonna be fine. Gonna honor their agreement and make sure he keeps himself fine. Keeps himself alive.

Now Billy just has to worry about saving the fucking world.

He hauls himself up with enough conviction that he lands on his feet back in the forest. Reaches up and feels his skull healed whole under his fingers when he probes the mess at the back of his head. Takes a breath in and feels both lungs pulling air like they ought. Knows he’ll make it. Barely. For all the fucking good he’ll be when he gets there.

He starts to run as best he can. Follows the tiny footprints in the snow. Follows the ripples when the pain has him slipping off back into the black. Just hauls himself along, still so goddamn broken, just careening off trees, stumbling onward, falling, crawling, getting back up again. Getting back up again every fucking time.

He has to close the gate. Beat the monster.

If he beats the monster, Steve will be alive. He’ll be alive and it will be fine. Everything will be—

That’s the fucking deal, okay?

Has to be. Because he’d never even thought about a world where Steve didn’t make it through this shit. He’d never even considered that.

And he ain’t about to start now.

That’s for goddamn sure.

He hears El’s cry nearby. Picks up speed. Picks up a thick branch from the ground and stalks into an open space, breaking stray twigs away for a better grip. Just enough light remains in the night to see the snowy floor of the clearing. The open gate at the far end of it. Not enough to light see them coming. Not really.

“El,” he calls, slipping in the snow as wings whistle by, warning. “Where the fuck are you? Get to the gate. I’ll cover you. Just—”

The blow catches him from behind. And his vision blurs out at the hard fucking wallop to his barely-healed skull. The air clouds powdery around him. Something knocked loose from the thing. Spores from its wings dusting the air. Sliding down his throat, tickling, scratching, on an involuntary gasp.

He picks himself up from off the ground, where he’d dropped. Moves slowly, carefully, his joints feeling knocked the fuck loose and his head still swimming. He steps further out into the open. Hands feeling empty. Tries to remember— In his hands, there was—

A cigarette.

Feels the wind knocked out of him. Hitting the ground again. Feels it absently.

Doesn’t pay the feeling any attention, because he’s busy stalking across the stupid-ass Halloween party. Because he’s just seen the guy. King Steve. One Tommy had told him about. All too-fucking-cool in his sunglasses and leaned up against the wall. Thinks he’s Tom Cruise or some shit. So Billy strolls on up. Lets everyone else talk for him and takes the opportunity to just stare the guy down. Measure what he’s made of. And the guy doesn’t disappoint. Takes his shades off to get a better eyeful. Big brown eyes on him. Pretty eyes.

“It’s a big goddamn stick,” King Steve says.

“... The fuck?” Billy’s confused.

And the guy’s eyes drift down to Billy’s beer-wet chest. Up for it.

“Thing you’re looking for.” Harrington says. “Thing you dropped,” he adds, head turned and panting over his shoulder as he tries to outmaneuver Billy and move on down the court. Shoes squeak and the ball WHAP WHAP WHAP’s the floor. Harrington’s ass keeps brushing against Billy’s thigh and the guy’s left hand keeps touching Billy’s bare side as Billy easily mirrors the guy’s movements, just playing with him at this point. Liking where he is just fine, thanks.

“What I dropped?” Billy says, leaning in. “How bout you focus on what I’m about to pick up?”

Steals the ball and runs it down the court. And he doesn’t even bother talking shit after he makes the shot. Just stands there, watching Harrington’s face, tongue licking at his lip.

_Billy!_

Watching the blood leak down the guy’s paling chin.

Watches it wash away in the shower stream, Steve running that fucking rich-boy shampoo of his through his hair. Ignoring Tommy giving him shit about his girl. Blatantly ignoring Billy’s eyes on him too.

_Wake up!_

We’ll see about that.

“Don’t take it too hard, Man,” Billy says, seeing that they’re alone. “Pretty boy like you’s got nothin to worry about.”

“Hey, I’m not _too_ worried,” Steve says. Wipes the suds away from his eyes. Spits red onto the orange tiles, color thinning, swirling pink down the drain. “I just need to stay breathing. You’re the one with a monster to slay.”

And ain’t that some shit.

Ain’t that the truth.

“What’re you doin here, Amigo?” Billy asks.

Steve comes walking down the Byers shitty porch stairs.

“Could ask you the same thing… Amigo.” Crossed arms. Sad eyes. Licks dark blood from his lip and swallows it down. “Running out of time over here. What are _you_ doing?”

Billy frowns. Not how it went. How it goes. He takes another hit off his cigarette. The smoke is tasteless on his tongue. Tasteless and cold.

_Billy! Billy, help!_

“Looking for something,” he says to Steve, punches him again, straddling the guy on the Byers paper-strewn floor. Pain is creeping up on Billy outta nowhere. Closer with each movement. Something he’d forgotten. A whole-body kinda pain. A whole-world kinda pain.

“Yeah, well,” Steve replies. Takes another hit to the face and coughs up a little gout of blood. “It ain’t here. You dropped it out there somewhere. So wake the fuck up and find it.”

_Wake up! Please!_

“Wasn’t sleepin,” Billy says, knowing that he was. That he is. That—

That the fire is warm and he’d been napping. The chair is old and rich and fucking comfortable, so sue him. The room smells like hot cocoa and classical music flavors the air.

“Billy,” Steve says from the other chair, eyes huge from this angle and ringed in purple and black like fucking eyeshadow all sweat-smeared after sex in a hot car. “You’ve _been_ sleeping. Dreaming. You think you’re really here right now? Think this cocoa is for you? Only winners get cocoa. Monster killers. Man, wake the fuck up.”

_Please, Billy! Please. Wake—_

“Don’t wake up,” Billy whispers, brushing Steve’s hair back. Four-a-goddamn-clock in the morning and Billy had lain there listening to the guy’s whimpering, not knowing what the fuck to do. Wanting to stop the nightmare Steve was clearly in. Not wanting to get too close. Too involved. Couldn’t afford that.

Like Steve’d even want Billy that close, anyway. Kissed the guy once, for fuck’s sake. Barely knew the guy. Calm the fuck down.

Couldn’t just leave Steve fucking scared like that, though. Thrashing and apt to rip out his fresh stitches. Trapped in some nightmare. Not when the guy was right there on the bed. Not when Billy knew what would help.

“Shh, just a dream.” Billy whispers. “Don’t have to wake up.”

“Can’t wake up,” Steve whispers back, eyes closed, talking in his sleep. Face too pale. Too much rubble pinning him down to the bed. “Fucking dying over here, Billy. And it’s— I mean, you know what it’s like.”

“I know,” Billy says. And he does.

“I know,” he repeats. Lifts his head outta the snow, gasping. “I know what to do. I got it.” Finds El’s exhausted frightened eyes, her hands still locked to his shoulders, and grins his wickedest grin. “Oh, that thing is so fucking dead.”

Another giant moth comes streaking in and El lets out a cry as she bats it away with her power, falling to hands and knees after, chest heaving.

“Shit. Can you cover me just a little longer?” he asks her, sitting up. She nods slowly. Wipes at her red-stained lips.

Billy pushes the image of Steve’s bloody mouth from his mind.

He closes his eyes. Draws in a breath. And he searches out the last of the strings. Taps into the very fucking moths he’s trying to beat. The worms in the goddamn gate. All the little monster rats left running out there in the world. That all-wrong power from the creatures. That almost-incompatible shit.

He taps into all of em. All of it.

And he pulls.

Steals the strength right the fuck out of them. Pulls it directly into his muscles, coiled tight. Bestial. Foreign. Good enough.

Strength enough to get up and find the stick he’d dropped. Strength enough to help end this shit for good.

“Close it!” he says, locking eyes with El. “I’ve got you.”

And she nods. She nods and turns her power on the gate. Screaming at the strain of it. Pushes the worms back inside. Forces the edges to begin sealing.

Billy guards the clearing. Bringing each of the fucking things down as soon as they swoop in. Three branches chewed up, broken on their bodies. Shirt pulled up over his mouth to keep from being poisoned. Again. Four branches down. Five.

Still alive.

And after a too-long bit, most of them are dead. Powdery fragile white corpses litter the whole of the clearing. Dark blood soaks the snow. But Billy doesn’t know if it’s enough. Just doesn’t fucking know. Because as they die off, so does his strength. Action and reaction.

And he’s about used up. Pain back. Hadn’t bothered to heal himself at all. Hadn’t had the juice to waste.

He isn’t the priority here.

“Billy,” El says, looking back over her shoulder. “Time.”

“No time. Just fucking finish it,” he says, eye on an incoming moth, not knowing if he’ll have force enough to knock it out of the sky this time. Branch in his hands almost cracked the fuck through already. He’ll take his chances. Fight as long as he can.

The moth tumbles to the ground in a crumpled, broken heap. And Billy’s eyes move from it to El. One of her arms aimed at the gate, the other held out toward the moth’s corpse, her bleeding eyes skim to Billy.

“You. Safe. First,” she says, between huffed, labored breaths. Eyes stubborn.

And he’s not about to take the time to fight that shit. That level of stubborn. Knows when he’s outclassed. He closes his eyes. Burrows into his own brain and looks for it. Looks. Ignores her cry, the brush of what must be a moth’s wing against his shoulder as she barely stops it attacking. Looks for that button. That push to purge button.

And you know what? Once he presses it, he doesn’t know what the fuck all those people had been screaming about. It’s not even that bad. Not even close to the worst Billy’s had.

Fuckin babies.

He’s still curled up on the ground with the pain. He’ll give them that much. It doesn't tickle. But it ain’t all they made it out to be is all he’s sayin.

Just one more fuckin thing that hurts, when it comes right down to it.

The ground soaks black in front of him, that shit just pouring outta him, pulsing and alive. The goop gathers in on itself. Slithers off. But all he can focus on is his watch, glowing faintly on his wrist. One minute to four.

He hears El’s struggling cry. Once more. One last effort. Final curtain. Gate closed.

It’s done. Done. He’s killed the fucking monster if the gate is closed. Cut it’s fucking strings for good. Trapped the fucking Mind Flayer where it belongs. Far from here.

He’s done it. They’ve done it.

It’s done.

Eyes still on his watch, he clocks the seconds ticking away, not really noticing the creeping warm black swallowing the edges of his vision.

Four o’clock. Tick tock.

“You dreaming?” he asks Steve, the guy’s body limp. Still trapped under the rubble and lying not a foot away from him. Pale face reflected in the dark water they both lie in.

Steve smiles. “Pretty sure—” Steve whispers, barely a breath making it past that slight smile. “Pretty sure it’s a nightmare.”

“Yeah I figured. About that time of night, huh?” Billy studies Steve’s face. Those thick eyelashes fringing still-closed eyes. God, Billy misses those eyes. Misses those lips that should be pink but aren’t. Just pale and dry. Wrong.

Misses Steve. Lying there. Untouchable. Miles away. Right there.

“What’s the nightmare about?” he says.

Nothing for a while. No answer. Just Steve’s slack face and his even, shallow breathing. Billy watches, rapt. Because as long as the guy’s still breathing, you know?

As long as he’s still holding up his end of the deal.

“Monsters,” Steve breathes, finally. “Just—the usual monsters.”

“Well,” Billy says, coming up closer. So close that a huffed, pained breath ruffles the image of Steve’s face lightly. Billy breathes more carefully, ignoring the pain. Watches that face settle. “I killed all the fucking monsters, Stevie. So problem solved.”

“Problem solved,” Steve sighs, slow and slurred. “My… hero.”

More breathing. Just breathing. Breaths too far between. Too shallow. Billy closes his eyes to hear them better.

“Hey Billy?” Ghost of a question.

And Billy finds he can’t open his fucking eyes when he tries. Lids won’t work. So he just answers. Listening for those breaths to keep comin.

Steve promised.

“Mmhm?” he says, his own voice blurred and too soft. Not cooperating.

“Will you sing it for me?”

And Billy laughs. He laughs and he grimaces at the sharp glassy pain that brings.

“Sure, Stevie. Yeah. I’ll sing it for you.”

One last time.

One last time to put the monsters to bed for good.

“I may not always love you,” he starts, voice weak and raspy.

“But long as there are stars above you.”

Feels pain along his back. Scraping. Feels hands dug into his armpits, pulling. Ignores it. Stays with Steve.

“You never need to doubt it,”

Hears the sound of rubble shifting. Of one two three lifting. Faint voices. More rocks falling. Stays with Steve.

“I’ll make you so sure a—”

Billy’s voice cuts out mid-word. Strength of it lost. And he can’t get the words to start back up.

“Stevie?” Tries to say his name, the word mouthed but not voiced. Not even a whisper will come out. And his voice isn’t the only thing that’s fucking fading on him.

Stevie….

“Yeah?”

Steve’s voice, more than a whisper. Bright. Awake and alive. Like everything’s normal. Like—

“We make it then?” Billy asks, throat dry and barely working.

And Steve chuckles. Billy feels a hand combing into his curls. Getting stuck there. Feels a kiss to his forehead, quick and soft, the stutter of Steve’s breath at his continued silent laughter puffing warm on Billy’s cheek.

Warm.

Fucking _warm_.

So that’s what it had felt like.

Huh.

And Steve untangles his hand from Billy’s hair gently. Rests the freed hand gently on Billy’s chest. And Billy doesn’t worry so much that he still doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes. That’s fine. He can wait on that shit.

“Gee. I dunno. What do you think?” Steve says.

And Billy smiles. Doesn’t bother with an answer.

Because, what an asshole, right?

Yeah. What an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And so it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s Over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier  
> 24\. Kiss with a Fist – Florence + the Machine  
> 25\. Colorblind – Counting Crows  
> 26\. Prove My Love – Violent Femmes  
> 27\. Who Wants to Live Forever – Queen  
> 28\. Broken Crown – Mumford and Sons  
> 29\. Adagio for Strings – Samuel Barber


	30. Housewarming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, you guys. This is it. So fucking emotional about it, too. 
> 
> I hope you like this last (last, oh God) chapter and I wish all of you a wonderful holiday. Of course, also have an amazing New Year! Much love.
> 
> Thank you all so much for being a part of this!

“Hop’s wrapping it?”

Billy’s skeptical. Wonders what kind of wrapping paper Hop would even have. Pictures a sloppy mess of newspaper and duct tape. Pictures the look on Max’s face when she’s handed that shit.

Actually….

“Nope. El is. She seemed real excited about it, too.”

And it’s not like she’s probably ever wrapped a present before. Billy pictures the job she’ll do. Grins. Max’ll _have_ to be fucking nice about it, too, because it’s, like, El’s first Christmas not trapped in some government facility or gone feral out in the woods. He’d heard the stories, and—

Steve elbows him—gently—guy’s broken ribs making anything he tries to do lately happen at lot slower pace and Billy’s general state of brokenness causing Steve to pull all the playful punches he wants to throw anyway. Honestly, they’re both fucking lucky to be moving at all, so—

“Jesus that grin is evil,” Steve says, grinning himself and somehow looking fucking innocent with it on. Billy must’ve forgotten to take his grin down, picturing Max trying to play polite. Doesn’t bother now. Just keeps it up to match Steve’s. 

“You know,” Steve goes on, “you’re probably the nicest asshole I know. Quit worrying. Max is gonna love the present. No matter how it’s wrapped.”

“Not worried. Dick.”

Billy’s fucking excited. And he hasn’t been excited over Christmas in— 

He gives up on the whole sitting up institution, slides on down the mattress and plops a couple of his extra pillows to the floor so he can lie down properly.

“Not getting those for you later,” Steve says, already sprawled out. Billy grabs up an extra pillow he’d missed and tosses it gently at Steve, who groans lazily and bats it slowly away.

Neither of them have left the bed more than absolutely necessary in the four days they’ve spent out of the hospital. Constant stream of midgets means they haven’t really had to. Means they’ve been pampered and catered to and babied so much that it’s been pretty fucking annoying, actually. Never having any privacy. And then there was the whole _thing_ about their sleeping arrangements.

“But why are you, like, in the same bed. There’s thirty rooms in this house, Steve.”

Dustin had said it, clueless as always. And for all Max’s eye rolling and Will’s awkward blushing and averted gaze, there was Mike’s openmouthed bolt of understanding and Lucas’s confused look darting back and forth between the two.

“Wait a second,” Lucas says finally. “So you two are—”

“Obviously,” Max says, cutting him off. “That a problem, Lucas?”

“No Ma’m. I mean—no,” Lucas replies. And Billy can’t help but laugh. Smart kid. And then he can’t help but groan, because fucking laughing hadn’t been the smartest thing _he’d_ ever done. Jesus.

“I don’t get it,” Dustin says, eyes darting from person to person. “How is this question answered? Guys?”

And then Steve starts laughing. Cutting himself off with a “fuck! Ow.” only to start up again, unable to stop. And that gets everyone else going, Dustin still standing there left somewhere between clueless and annoyed, still waiting for an answer.

He’d figured it out eventually.

Billy turns his head to look at Steve. Still kinda surreal every time he does. Billy’d been so sure he’d never be able to again. Never be able to run a hand over the skin on Steve’s chest, like he was doing now, careful to skirt the angry puncture wound left from the needle they’d had to insert to let out the air that was collapsing the guy’s lung. Stops just short of touching one of the largest bruises Billy’d ever fucking seen, courtesy of the giant chunk of building that had lacerated Steve’s liver, broken six ribs and bruised the guy’s lungs.

Yeah. Just the fact that Billy’s here, able to touch Steve, able to look at him, is pretty fuckin special.

Merry Christmas to him, yano?

Billy kisses the bruise. Gentle with it. Barely there. Keeps going, moving slowly down Steve’s mottled abdomen.

“Billy—”

“Shh. Stay put.”

Billy moves down to lay sprawled awkwardly over Steve’s legs. Can’t hold himself up properly but fuck it. Whatever works. Shimmies Steve’s pajama pants on down till he can get at the guy’s swelling dick. He casts his eyes up to Steve’s, locked dead on him, one hand helping to hold the guy’s head where he can watch. Those fucking eyes. He’ll never get over those big doe eyes and the fact that he can look at them whenever he wants. So, eyes still on Steve’s, he moves down and kisses the skin right _beside_ Steve’s dick. Doesn’t even brush that dick as he kisses Steve again. Kisses at the little divot between groin and thigh. Keeps going, pausing between each kiss to watch Steve swell, harden. To spot the difference. To look up at the guy’s face. Into those still-open eyes like Steve _knows_ — Listen to that heavy breath. In and out. Fucking loving the sound of it.

And they _had_ said somethin about breathing exercises at the hospital, after all. Billy’s just doin his part in the recovery process. Just a helpful guy.

After Steve’s hard—actually a while after cause that shit doesn’t take long at all—Billy finally moves on to the main attraction. Kissing up the skin there as well, walking his lips on up the shaft. Following the forged trail after with a teasing tongue, swirling around the tip, sucking it in to let it go with a POP. And it’s only when Steve is a shaking, begging mess that Billy actually takes him full in his mouth. Comes at it from a different angle and takes him down whole, actually—sometimes a past has it’s fucking uses. Ignores the shaking arms and cramping abdomen that holding himself up like this brings on. It’s fine. Steve doesn’t fucking last long anyway.

Billy swallows him down as he cums. Happens to look at his watch as he’s rucking Steve’s pants back up his hips, smiling, mellow. Sated himself without even needing to be touched. Without even cumming. Just listening to Steve’s breathing even out. Just looking up at those eyes. Open. Still on Billy. Like Steve—

It’s midnight. Five minutes past.

“Merry fucking Christmas, Stevie.” He pats Steve’s leg. “Time for more pain meds.”

Time to sleep. Let Santa do his thing.

And tonight of all nights, it’s him startling the two of them awake at fucking four o’clock. Swimming up out of his nightmare all flailing limbs and sprinting breath, heart vibrating out of his chest. And it’s Steve sliding up behind him and reeling him in. Kissing his neck. Warm breath and gentle “shh,” in his ear.

“It’s okay. It’s all okay now. It’s over. I’ve got you. Shh.”

And Billy’s wild eyes dart from shadow to shadow, just waiting for something to pop out and attack. But Steve’s breath comes in steady behind. And Billy’s breath syncs up eventually, his eyes calming to stillness, lids growing heavy then falling shut.

“We’re safe. It’s alright. Shh.”

And fuck if Billy doesn’t believe him. And fuck if the whimpering, kicked fucking dog noise doesn’t finally stop coming out of him. If, at some point, safe, without even noticing when, he doesn’t fall right back into sleep. Fuck if he doesn’t dream of Steve.

Sweet dreams.

Cuddling and shit.

And the kids are over bright and early in the morning, coming right on into their room with no regard for privacy and screeching them awake with fucking off-tune carols, El’s grin battling with a look of intense concentration like she’s painfully memorized all the unfamiliar words, Max jumping on the goddamn bed. Gently. Santa hat clashing with her hair.

By the afternoon, when Billy and Steve make their geriatric way down the hall for the Christmas party the kids had insisted on, the living room is fully decked out in an odd assortment of garland and tinsel and lights and ornaments clearly appropriated piecemeal from all of their houses. And there’s a tree. A goddamn tree. Lights, ornaments, presents underneath, all that shit.

Billy doesn’t remember the last time he’d had a tree for Christmas. Definitely not since Mom. Not even for Susan and Max, weirdly enough. Not even when Neil had been trying to impress them.

Uneven and bare, mismatched as it is, it’s just about the prettiest fucking thing Billy’s ever seen. Yeah. Just about.

He looks over to Steve to find the guy staring around at his own living room like he’d never fucking seen it before. Twinkle lights reflected in those big brown unblinking eyes, too shiny. Throat working to keep down overflow emotion. Steve’s eyes find his, and the guy’s lit up smile beats out all the Christmas lights hands-down; breaks Billy’s goddamn heart a little, too. Guy’s got knack for it.

Is this the first fucking Christmas in this house?

Jesus, Stevie.

Five minutes later and Steve’s singing carols with the rest. Decorating cookies that someone had baked at some point while the scent of dinner wafts out of the usually bleach-scented kitchen.

Susan had come. Is in there presiding over a Christmas feast while Joyce and Nancy and even Hop and Jonathan do their part to help. Do whatever she orders them to do.

Max keeps throwing glances at the kitchen and grinning around a spirited rendition of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

“—join in any reindeer games—like Monopoly!”

Billy, out of service after frosting one fucking cookie, lays on the couch, head pillowed on Robin’s thigh as they talk because she’d fucking lifted it and sat where it _had_ been resting on the cushion.

She’s got a comfortable leg, though.

He catches Will’s eye across the crowd. And the kid looks around the room. Looks between Billy and Robin on the couch. Shrugs. Gives Billy this look like, “see?”

Friends help.

And they fucking do, too. For the first time in a while, Billy feels like he belongs. Right now, at least. In this moment, at least. Right this second, he feels like this is where he’s meant to be.

Feels part of something and worth being included in it.

“Did you hear about all those Russians they found under the mall?” Robin says. “Crazy shit. Apparently, the floor caved in on all these underground tunnels and labs?”

He looks up at her chin. Chuckles.

“Damn….” He whistles. Takes another bite of his sloppily-decorated gingerbread man, severing a leg. “Must be a blow for the cause. You report it back to the Motherland, yet?”

“They can wait till after Christmas,” Robin says, straight-faced. After a beat she smiles down at Billy. Winks.

At some point there’s a doorbell. Max hops up unthinking and runs to answer, coming back a couple minutes later with a basket full of fruit.

“Here ya go,” she says, hoisting the goods onto the counter in front of Steve. “Your maid says merry Christmas. Says to eat these instead of all that sugar or you’ll never heal.”

“You saw her?” Billy and Steve say simultaneously.

“Umm, yes?” Max says, confused.

“Wait, _you’ve_ never seen her?” Billy asks Steve. Because, I mean, how?

“No,” Steve says. “Never.” Turns to Max. “So? What does she look like?”

And the mystery is worth Billy hauling himself up off Robin’s lap to solve.

They eat dinner early. Susan calls them all in and sends the kids off to set the table. Billy makes it over, finally, after the midgets are already done and the food is brought out. Sinks down next to Steve. Keeps the pain off of his face.

Everything is passed around—Max serving Billy after herself and passing each dish off to Dustin who loads up Steve’s plate before his own—and soon enough they’re all digging into ham and mashed potatoes and green beans and rolls and corn and salad. Soon enough that’s polished off and they’re digging into apple pie and sipping coffee or eggnog, spiked or otherwise. Billy sneaks some rum into his and Hop definitely sees but only pours some for himself after, not saying a goddamn word about it.

After dinner comes presents. And maybe a little more eggnog, though Billy’s not supposed to drink on top of the pain meds. Who cares though? It’s Christmas, right?

Give him a break.

So maybe he’s a little blitzed and actually able to sit up when he should be laid out again. Maybe he’s feeling no pain and a little bit excited for Max to get to her present.

They’d all drawn names. And Billy had of course rigged the system to make sure he’d drawn hers. Had Hop buy the present with the last of the money Billy’d split Neil’s house with. He can see it there beneath the tree, covered carefully in bright festive paper and tied with a curly silver bow. El did great. Better than Billy would’ve.

The kid’s really catching up.

He leans into Steve, a compromise between sitting and laying. Franklin is curled up on Billy’s shoulder, little body tucked up half under his sweater and Billy’s arm is thrown around Steve’s shoulders like he’s just being affectionate and not trying real hard to hold himself upright. Fucking weird, too. Sitting here like this. Weird that he’s doing it in the first place. Cuddling. Weird that he _can_ in front of all these people. Weird that they know him and Steve are— That they know and don’t care. Don’t think it’s a fucking sin or disgusting or even…weird. At least they don’t act like it. No-one even gives them a second glance.

Except Robin, who looks at Billy like a proud mom and wipes an imaginary tear from her eye.

But fuck her.

Steve gets to open his present second. Max gets up and runs him the gift she’d gotten him. He unwraps it eagerly. Makes this squeaking, snorting, choking sound trying to stop himself laughing and Billy looks down at what Max got him.

Oh hell fucking no.

A slew of pictures on the first page of an album. Buncha blue eyes staring up at him from behind protective plastic, all belonging to a much younger, much naked-er Billy at bath time. She’s given him Billy’s fucking baby pictures. She’s made an album of Billy’s fucking baby pictures and given it to _Steve_ for Christmas.

He glares up at her.

“You are so dead, you little punk.” Only fair to warn her. “Better watch out once I’m walking again.” He draws a finger across his throat in a slitting motion. “Dead.”

“You,” Steve says, still staring down at the pictures, flipping to the next page, “were so _adorable_! Oh, wow. Billy, look how chubby you were! Look at dat widdle face! And those ears, oh my God!”

“Hey!”

Steve smiles up at him, unrepentant, but closes the album so the rest of the brats rushing over can’t get a glimpse.

And Billy’s never gonna live this shit down. Never.

He looks on grumpily, trying to pay attention to the rest of the present-opening, but he fucking _hurts_. Leans more and more heavily on Steve and feels guilty about it too because it’s not like the guy isn’t plenty busted up himself. Not like he isn’t leaning right back, the both of them just sort of propping each other up like a house of cards and about as fucking fragile.

He just rests there, face carefully neutral, till Max hauls out the biggest present near the tree—fucking huge box—and pushes it over to him, huffing.

“Mom, seriously? What is this, bricks?”

Billy sits straighter. Leans so he can read the label once Max gets it over to him.

To: Billy

From: Susan

“It’s nothing,” Susan says, quiet. Billy looks up at the tone. The room’s gone quiet with it, too. “It’s not enough,” She says, hitching up a small sad smile. “Not nearly, but I—"

Billy tears at the paper, wishing everyone’d stop fucking watching. Wishing someone would talk, laugh at some joke or fucking get up to get another cookie. Just _something_ , guys, c’mon. Anything. He tears at the paper. Opens the box the paper had hidden

“My stuff.” He forgets the eyes on him.

It’s all there. At least the important— His weights, ha, no wonder Max had such a hard time. Some of his abandoned clothes, including a jean jacket he’d forgotten and fucking missed. His records in a little box on top of the pile. His cologne and fucking hair spray—he laughs at that. All here.

Everything he thought he’d left behind. Everything he thought was gone for good. Seeing it all here, he realizes how much he fucking missed it. So much for not getting attached to things, huh?

“There’s a new album in there, too. I wouldn’t just give you your own things back for Christmas and call it a day. The young man at the record store told me you might like it after I mentioned some of the other things you owned. I hope you do.”

Billy paws through the records, scanning the labels, till he finds something unfamiliar. Colorful artwork, knights on the cover with a sunsetting sky and castle behind.

“Armored Saint. I’ve heard of these guys,” he says, letting out one excited laugh that he immediately gets a handle on. Regrets. Looks up to see Max’s smug look. Fuck.

“Thanks,” he says. Means it. And it gets even better because Susan lets it be at that. Just smiles and asks who’s turn it is next, distracting the group.

Billy watches. Can’t wait till he can climb the fucking stairs. That sound system doesn’t know what’s comin for it is all he’s sayin.

Max opens her present towards the end of the line and Billy perks up a bit for it. Clears the pain-blur from his brain and watches for her reaction.

It’s not even a real present.

More like an apology.

“You wrapped this?” she asks, skeptically.

“I did!” El says, near bouncing on her seat, the colorful scarf that Joyce had gotten her wrapped loose around her neck.

“Pretty,” Max says, playing with the ribbon, smiling up at El’s eager expression and peeling the wrapping paper carefully away from the box beneath.

When she opens the box, her eyes go wide. Her mouth drops open.

“You—”

Her wide eyes find Billy’s.

“Owed you,” he says. And she clicks her mouth closed, swallows, smiles, and he doesn’t have to say anything more. She gets him. She nods.

“You _so_ did,” she says, nodding.

She hauls the new skateboard out of its box. Spins a colorful wheel, her face cast downward, half hidden behind her hair.

“Thanks, Billy.” Comes out quiet. He doesn’t think that anyone else besides him and Susan can even tell that she’s trying not to cry.

“Like I said…,” he says, uncomfortable. Hates the quiet after.

“Me next,” Dustin says excitedly, cutting off the tense silence. And everyone settles in as he hops up to grab his present from Nancy.

After presents, they clean up. They leave the leftovers for Billy and Steve and divvy up the cookies among everyone. They take off in small groups, cheerily, out into a world that’s safe and quiet and very different from the world of a week ago.

Into a town that had shaken off the strange events that had upended it. A town pretending that nothing had happened, like they all could make it true if they just pretended hard enough. If they all just did their part.

And in a way, they have made it true.

Forgotten those terrible, tragic, perfectly natural, completely explainable events that were most likely an accident anyway so why dwell on what can’t be changed, right?

Whatever gets them back to normal the quickest.

And most of Hawkins _has_ gone back to normal.

Most.

Billy doesn’t even remember what normal looks like. Wonders if he ever really knew to begin with.

He’s finally given up with the sitting again and is lying on the couch, Franklin wandering his chest but not trying to leave it, his whiskers tickling Billy’s chin every so often like the little guy is checking up. The rat is half propped up on Billy’s face, little paws on Billy’s jaw, when Will comes over to the couch on his way out the door, already bundled in coat, hat and mittens against the cold outside.

Billy hadn’t been outside since he left the hospital. Won’t go outside for a long fucking time to come, either. Not if he can help it. He’s staying where it’s warm.

“I almost forgot. I fixed it like you asked.”

Will holds out Franklin’s wheel and Billy reaches for it. Carefully. Sets it on his chest and Franklin runs to it with a few little chirps and starts it spinning.

“Jesus, someone’s excited. Merry Christmas little dude.” He looks back to Will. “Thanks.”

“Well,” Will says, “I probably owed him one. For the experiments.”

The wheel spins away. Billy tries not to breathe too hard, knock the thing down and traumatize the little guy. Holds the base to be on the safe side.

“Yeah, well…,” Billy says, not really wanting to talk about anything that had happened during all that shit, yet. Time enough for that once he can sit up longer than five minutes without aching everywhere. When all the bruises and nicks and chips and scrapes and fractures and contusions and tears over his entire fucking body that the doctors couldn’t believe, and that Billy couldn’t explain, had healed up as best as they were gonna. 

Later.

Will leaves with his family. The last of the groups to go. Just Billy and Steve and Franklin left all alone in the big empty house after. One happy fuckin family under all the twinkling lights. For once, the place feels warm inside.

Yup. One big happy family, two thirds of which are due for another dose of pain meds ASA-fucking-P. Billy scoops Franklin up and raises himself to sitting at a glacial pace. Gets to his feet just as fast. Shambles across the room, socks picking up static, and puts the little dude down in his cage, wheel back in pride of place.

“That was really—” Steve says, little smile left over from seeing the Byers crew out. “I think that was probably the best Christmas I ever had.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, closing Franklin up snug for the night. “Know what you mean.”

They take their pills with leftover eggnog, sans high-octane spirits this time. Take their sweet time walking back over to the couch and sinking down into the plush cushions, propping up against each other again once they’re seated. The photo album, Steve’s present, is open in the guy’s lap.

“You were so happy,” Steve says, tracing a glossy gap-toothed baby smile Billy doesn’t even remember smiling.

“I was a baby,” Billy says as if that means something. Explains something. “Happy now, too,” he adds. “Right now. This very second.”

“Yeah?” Steve looks over.

“Yeah,” Billy says. Kisses Steve’s shoulder. Lays his head on Steve for a change.

“Me too,” Steve says. “Be even happier once I’m healed up and in sunny California with you, learning how to surf and ride motorcycle.”

“You on a motorcycle,” Billy says, thoughtful, actually picturing it now that it’s a real possibility. “Shit, Stevie, I don’t need that kind of anxiety this late in the day.”

And Steve laughs. Carefully. “Alright, fine,” he says, head resting against Billy’s head resting on his shoulder. “Got any other, less terrifying, plans for the future?”

“Maybe,” Billy says, running his fingers over his upper lip. “You think I could pull off a mustache?”

“I said less terrifying.” Steve sits straighter, looks at Billy, panicked. “No. No mustache. Absolutely not.”

“Whatever,” Billy says, and feels Steve relax again. Lean back into him.

Billy could totally pull one off, though, whatever Steve thinks. He runs his upper lip again.

No question.

No question about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist - By chapter
> 
> 1\. Three Nil - Slipknot  
> 2\. People are Strange - Echo & the Bunnymen (Okay so it was The Doors or The Lost Boys. Lost Boys won. Fight me.)  
> 3\. 12 Variations on "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman” KV265 - Mozart  
> 4\. Creep - Radiohead  
> 5\. Breathe Me - Sia  
> 6\. I think I’m okay – Machine Gun Kelly, YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker  
> 7\. I want You – Savage Garden  
> 8\. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Metallica  
> 9\. Come to me - Bjork  
> 10\. So Cold – Breaking Benjamin  
> 11\. Crazy on you - Heart  
> 12\. Hold the Line - Toto  
> 13\. Back in Black – AC/DC  
> 14\. Bad guy – Billy Eilish  
> 15\. Feeling good – Muse  
> 16\. Think – Aretha Franklin  
> 17\. Time After Time – Cyndi Lauper  
> 18\. Through Glass – Stone Sour  
> 19\. And so it Goes – Billy Joel  
> 20\. God Only Knows – The Beach Boys  
> 21\. It Will Come Back – Hozier  
> 22\. When the Party’s Over – Billy Eilish  
> 23\. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier  
> 24\. Kiss with a Fist – Florence + the Machine  
> 25\. Colorblind – Counting Crows  
> 26\. Prove My Love – Violent Femmes  
> 27\. Who Wants to Live Forever – Queen  
> 28\. Broken Crown – Mumford and Sons  
> 29\. Adagio for Strings – Samuel Barber  
> 30\. Happy Xmas (War is Over) - John Lennon & Yoko Ono feat. The Harlem Community Choir


End file.
